


The Fangirl's Unruly Deeds

by Xoxo_Sadie21



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Attempt at Humor, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Damon Salvatore being Damon Salvatore, Dimension Travel, Empathy, Epic Friendship, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jack Kline Feels, Klaus Mikaelson Has A Heart, Love Across Universes, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, Multi, Multiple Love Interests, Mushy Feelings, Overprotective Dean Winchester, Overprotective Doctor, Reader-Insert, Superpowers, The Doctor tries to act tough, Time Travel, Timeless love, Unrequited Love, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, multi-fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 20,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xoxo_Sadie21/pseuds/Xoxo_Sadie21
Summary: DISCONTINUED.
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural) & Reader, Damon Salvatore & Reader, Dean Winchester & Reader, Eleventh Doctor/Reader, Jack Kline/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Klaus Mikaelson/Reader, Ninth Doctor/Reader, River Song & Reader, Sam Winchester & You, Tenth Doctor/Reader, The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Reader, Tony Stark & Reader, Twelfth Doctor/Reader
Comments: 87
Kudos: 139





	1. THE DOCTOR IS IN.

**Author's Note:**

> These start out as snapshots with the Eleventh Doctor, but there will be different Doctors and other characters from different fandoms. 
> 
> P.s. I'm planning my Doctor Who WIP, so I won't be posting consistently since I am giving my WIP all my focus. Please bare with me.

You're sitting in class when he bursts through the door, wide-eyed and uncoordinated.

All the drowsiness from that morning seems to completely vanish when your eyes flit over to the slight commotion, seemingly where he stands, six feet of ram-rod, lanky stature.

You want to laugh – he really _does_ look like a new born fawn finding its legs for the first time.

Reality seems to take a backburner when he begins to search the class with wild eyes, almost alarmed, nearer to frightened. You don't know why – until those green eyes (like faded watercolor) land right on you. And it takes everything in you not to gasp aloud then and there, especially when his alarmed expression disappears before your eyes, now replaced by one of his more dorkish, yappy grins.

You aren't surprised really, when he speaks your name; it sounds ruggish, exasperated and utter most relieved.

Then when you give a little crooked smile back and tilt your head, his smile seems to widen.

( _Whoa there sun, that's too bright–_ )

No. You really aren't surprised. With how much time you spent daydreaming about this day, or how much fanfiction you've read that would've prepared you for this day – nothing will surprise you.

You suppose that it's to be expected.

The only thing you hadn't been expecting was the sight of him stumbling his way over to you after having told your professor that he was your guardian ( _pfft like he could pass for your guardian_ –).

He kneels down next to you, floppy hair, lopsided, reminiscent grin, and he says those four words to you.

"I need your help."


	2. HERE WE GO.

_This is a younger version of him_ , you think.

He's got the tweed jacket – the one you like – and that beautiful red bow tie. It's obvious that this is during the days of stumbling upon Amelia Pond's backyard, saving the world from Prisoner Zero – blah, blah, blah.

He's so young.

No one says much as they watch this strange, strange man ( _who sort of looks like that one dude, Matt Smith_ –) clasp his hand around yours and pull you up. Not a word, but the feel of his hand woven around yours sends your nerves into a giddy mess.

And you're waiting for him to elaborate.

It's when the two of you are walking down the halls of your campus when he speaks up, and you're trying to keep up with his fast paced long limbs because – _yes, he is just that tall_.

"Now, I'm not sure which version of you I'm speaking to, but–" he stops abruptly, and you just barely catch yourself from bumping into his back. "I suppose that's not really important. You'll know who I am either way."

You stagger back — _of course you know who he is_.

You let out a noise akin to an _oof_ , fighting hard to keep your laughter to a minimal as he turns around to face you. And you think to yourself, he's so serious looking – switching moods like a madman. Just previously he'd been the happiest you'd ever seen him, a beautiful sight of pearly white teeth and those dimples sinking into his cheeks–

"Right then." He sidles up to you, standing so close that he's the only one you can see. His presence is mildly overwhelming you, but you don't mind the proximity.

You think he's asking you something, but somehow, you aren't able to make it out over the loud ringing in your ears or the harsh pounding of your heart.

He takes your cheeks into his hands then, oddly enough, brushes the pad of his thumbs over the curves of your cheekbones.

You don't remember the Doctor being this affectionate with his companions – assuming that after today you would be considered one.

Then again, besides his tenth incarnation, this was the only other face that had been as gentle as he is. As loving and careful – because he's being extremely careful with you and he's watching you a bit critically, as if there's something not even _he_ knows.

He calls your name – softly, but restrained – and it's then you realize he had asked you something.

Clearing your throat, you give a small shake of your head. "Sorry, Doctor. What did you say?"

You don't quite catch it in time – the mind-boggling glimmer of relief in his eyes. Eyes that resemble faded watercolor and – wait... hadn't you already mentioned his eyes? _Too many times to count_ , you think. He has quite the pair of them, too. You've always enjoyed looking into them whenever there had been a chance. Seeing them, actually seeing them, is an entirely different experience.

Then, he smiles.

And it's not just one of the smiles he has when he's with River or, or Amy – not even when he's with Clara. This smile is drawn and sincere and strangely fond, and you don't quite understand what it means yet.

"Judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing this is the first time you've actually, properly met me. Which means–" A startled yelp flees your lips when he embraces you, though you're not nearly surprised when he starts sniffing your hair. He wears that same enigmatic grin when he pulls back, staring down at you as one would to a small pup. "You're young. Very, very young."

"But I'm really not," you murmur, voice just a bit hoarse.

He tilts his head, eyes fond. "Oh, to me you are – you're practically a tot, love."

 _Love_.

The pet name sounds foreign coming from him. Foreign, and just a tad domestic.

He let's out a small laugh, a funny sound – barely a huff of air – no doubt in rebuttal to the small-scaled confusion in your eyes.

"Oh, right–" Then suddenly, he pulls himself away, lips forming into an apologetic frown, "I always forget you're not as touchy-feely this early into it."

 _Touchy-feely_.

It's been pointed out that you aren't one for close proximity with others, or with anyone for that matter. You hardly enjoy being on an emotional connection with someone due to how uncomfortable it makes you feel.

It makes sense that he would know that.

And somehow you aren't surprised that he does.

What you don't understand is how you could've been anything but uncomfortable at the very contact of him.

He was... tender. Albeit, a bit too sentimental and, well, _broody_ at times (though don't let _him_ hear you say that). However, this closeness, the _nearness_ that wills him to you is sort of demanding and a teensy bit concerning.

He has half the thought to reach up and pat your head – he changes his mind last minute. You'd caught the hesitation in his eyes when he lifted his hand once, before letting it fall back down to his side.

So, he settles for a sad smile – no, sad sounds childish. This smile is ancient and unlike anything you'd ever known.

"We should go."

Your face scrunches up adorably, "Yeah. TARDIS?"

He fixes you with a steadying look. " _Geronimo_."


	3. SLEEPLESS.

It’s safe to say that these past couple of days had been everything you ever dreamed of. Between meeting the Doctor, learning that not only are you a consistence in his life, but that you are even more near and dear to his hearts than you thought possible – all of it is amazing. 

The downfall of it all? The one very thing that has come back to drag you to your mercy?

Sleep. You need sleep – the Doctor doesn’t. 

This is a problem. Well, not for the Doctor, obviously – but it is for you. The Doctor never really needs sleep like humans do, he can go on for days and still not cross the line into sleep deprivation. You, on the other hand, need sleep. And lots of it. 

It was difficult, you remember. Just moments ago, he had dropped you off – and a bit reluctantly, too (he had the expression equivalent to a lost puppy – something you never thought could be aimed at you). 

You give a happy little sigh when you slip beneath your blankets, letting a string of laughs escape you as the Doctor’s utterly desperate face pops into your head. If there had been an opportunity to pout, you knew that would’ve been the best time to do it – he was the embodiment of a child. A man-child. 

And what’s more, he even asked for a hug. 

The Doctor _never_ asks – okay, that’s sort of lie. 

A big lie. 

His eleventh regeneration always goes for the hugs – _if_ your name is Amelia Pond, and if you’re lucky (and someone named River Song), you’ll get a kiss. Hell, you’d be fine with a _boop on the nose_. Anything affectionate from the _Last of the Time Lords_ would send your heart into a frenzy. 

You roll onto your back – how are you so _completely_ fine with that when you’ve spent your entire life having a stupid aversion to touch? You had accepted his outstretched appearance readily with flaming cheeks and a wavering, half-assed lovesick grin. Could you be any more obvious? You wanted to kick yourself right then and there; however, all rational thought flew out the window when he ran the palm of his hands up and down the space between your shoulder blades. 

The bastard knows your weak spots – he probably knows all of them, too. 

What’s worse is you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel angry because he smelt heavenly; tea tree and mint – your _favorite_. 

Despite how much you adored being held by him, you had forced yourself to push him away with your palm on his chest, avoiding the look of hurt that flashed across his face. 

With a groan, you slap a hand to your face. This isn’t good – this is very not good. Very, extremely bad. There’s an odd feeling of overwhelming euphoria rushing towards the center of your chest, and you don’t know how to deal with it. 

It’s an odd feeling, that’s for sure. 

Not a minute passes before your eyelids start to droop from the ever-growing fatigue, thoughts catching as you yawn. Stupidly enough, there’s something keeping your brain from shutting down fully and you know exactly what it is. 

It’s this new life of yours. 

It’s the running, the never ending stories you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren one of these days – if you end up going down that domestic road. Which, come to think of it, you’ve never thought about it. Never in your life, and thinking about it now terrifies you to the core. 

With one last lingering thought, you try to force yourself into a slumber.

And you wait. 

Then wait some more. 

Until…

The familiar sound of the TARDIS bombards every single one of your senses. 

You bolt upright, swiveling around, tangling your sheets further around your limbs as the outline of the blue, bigger on the inside, police box appears right before your eyes. 

A part of you sags in defeat, knowing your attempt to sleep will be futile. 

And before you can take a breath, he steps out fully, drenched – head-to-toe – in what looked like water, though you couldn’t be too sure. 

When his eyes land on you, the smile on his face grows twice in size. His happiness practically halos over his head, and somehow, you smile back despite the heaviness that weighs your body down. 

You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head at him. “Doctor, what in the world are you doing here?” 

He whispers your name then, soft – _desperate_. 

“Today is the day a good man goes to war.” 

Those words send a ripple throughout your body. 


	4. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.

"So, what's with all the–" you gesture wildly around your abdomen, "water?" 

It's a simple question, really. One you've been mulling over ever since he popped up in your bedroom, drenched – soaked. You'd been able to see every curve and muscle of his abdomen beneath the tight fabric of his shirt.

The Doctor gives you a sneaky grin, bounding over to the console. He dances around it, flipping switches and pulling levers – you almost want to offer your help, but you have no clue how you'd go about flying the TARDIS.

"Moby Dick," he finally says with a manic grin. "What a whirlwind that was."

You gape at him – Moby Dick, of course. Although you've never seen him in action outside the episodes, you knew there would be other adventures that didn't air on television. 

You hum absently, holding onto the closest railing to you to steady yourself when the TARDIS gives a lurch. "Wonder what it was like." 

"Don't worry, love. With me, you're going to see beyond the stars," he boasts, giving you that same soft, puppy-ish grin. 

You clamp down on your lips as a wave of, what can only be described as utter bliss, washes over you. It's overwhelming, and you can't find it in yourself to hold eye contact with him. 

You look away, abashedly – cheeks warmer than ever. 

Is he always like this? All puppy charm and innocence, something he's only ever really had with... well, with River, you suppose. 

You feel a tinge of excitement settle over you at the mere thought; you're going to meet River Song. The River Song – the badass and beautiful daughter of Rory and Amy Williams. 

At least, you hope. 

He did say today is the day A Good Man Goes to War, it should mean something – plenty of something's, you should say. You know today is the day that things begin to unravel. 

But, there's something you're missing... 

"Where is everyone?" He looks up at you curiously, so you continue to explain in your haste. "I'm assuming we're going to get Amy – keyword: assuming, because I have no clue if I've altered any timelines or not." 

At the small, barely noticeable smile on his lips, you sag with relief. "Yes, of course. _Blimey_ , I keep forgetting you have all of that foreknowledge inside that brilliant head of yours." 

Your heart wanes at the compliment. "I wouldn't call it brilliant, not really." At the adorably confused look upon his face, you give a small puff of laughter. "It's... exhausting – knowing what I know and not being able to change anything. I never truly feel right with myself, hiding things. Especially when there's that small chance that some things can be prevented. Things like... death." 

You look down at your shoes, scraping the tips of your converse together while the Doctor gives you that long-suffering look. 

Slightly uncomfortable from the silence, you lower yourself down into the Captain's seat – still very much avoiding his stare, and still very much aware of how visceral it is. You try to avoid it, and it's then you realize how badly you wish you should've kept your mouth shut. Considering you didn't know how he'd react to that, especially given that he'd been nothing but tender-hearted toward you the moment he stumbled into your lecture hall. 

The TARDIS settles down gently as the Doctor abruptly flips a switch on the console. With furrowed brows, you lift your head only to come face-to-face with the Time Lord himself. 

He doesn't say anything as he couches down in front of you, dipping his head low to get a good look at your face. Your heart constricts tightly in your chest before there's a chance to fully understand the meaning behind his quietude – and with the Doctor, it's difficult to decipher the underlying message. 

He looks... sad – no, sad is too childish. 

Dejected.

If there's a word to describe the absolute crestfallen look upon his face, it's that he looks dejected. Why, you have no clue. You aren't that important, besides all this foreknowledge that you can't do anything with. If you were the chosen one then why did they give you this mantel – this specific chore? You can't change time, can't save the ones who are meant to stay dead. And you want to, you really do. 

Sometimes, you wonder who 'they' are. 

And why you, of all people. A typical Mary Sue in a world full of extraordinary beings, ones you've only _dreamt_ of meeting. 

He calls your name – worriedly, sadly. "Look at me." 

Slowly, you do; eyes flitting up to catch his, breath catching, heart sputtering like a broken down car engine. 

"I can only imagine how difficult this is going to be for you, and I'm sorry to say this, but it's not going to get much easier." His face is the picture of pity. "But, you're going to have so many people to help you along the way. You've told me about your adventures – all the people you're going to meet, the worlds you're going to see. You never fail to amaze me." 

At the warm encouragement in his eyes, you try your best to fight the creeping grin from ghosting over your lips. It's futile. With a quiet laugh, you scrape the tip of your converse against the ground awkwardly. "Really?" 

He tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, smiling dorkishly and giving you a happy, soft sort of sound. Not quite a hum, not quite a sigh. Just... happy and soft. The sound is different, foreign, but nice on your ears nonetheless. 

"Well," you begin shyly. "Seems I've made quite the impression on you, Doctor." 

Another soft, happy sound – no nod, no words, just sounds. 

His eyes are half-lidded, grin yappy-ish, almost impish if you look closer.

And he won't stop looking at you like that. 

Then with a wistful sigh, "Have you always been this young?" 

Odd question, but you'll take what you can get in this moment. Anything to steer the moment into a different direction, preferably one where the nearness of him isn't so suffocating. 

"Have you always been this patient?" you laugh, and it's barely a puff of air. "I don't remember you being so... anchored before." 

And just like that, it's as if those words snapped him out of his daze. Wild eyed, the barely noticeable lovesickness twinkling away like stars. "Now, that's a story for another time." He boops your nose then hops back up, bounding back over to the console like an over-excited puppy.

You laugh only once, the sound of it strained with astonishment at his abrupt behavior. 

"Just you wait," he speaks over the booming _vworp_ of the TARDIS, grinning manically. "We're going to rule the skies, you and me." 


	5. A GOOD MAN GOES TO WAR.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but I'm already working on the next one so don't fret too much!

_Everything changes._

_From this point forward, everything is going to change._

_And it's going to be big._

You stare down at your hands, watching as they shake from nerves. Not the giddy, cranking up a rollercoaster kind of nerves – no, these are mind-numbing nerves. These are the kind of nerves that make you feel nauseous, and terrified. 

You had hid your concern from him the best you knew how, which meant covering up your fear with terrible puns and lightheartedness. You aren't exactly complaining – it worked. More than you thought it would, if you're being frank, and he even laughed. 

The Doctor _laughed_ when all you had done was come up with a lame pun. 

You're chewing on your nails now, tucked safely beside your brief companion – Madame Vastra, who's a lot more pretty up close you'd noticed. The Doctor had given her the task of watching over you when he couldn't, so that meant whenever he wasn't watching you, she needed to be. And he was very adamant about that too, now that you recall. 

It's almost as if he were putting your safety above everyone else's. 

It made you feel coddled. 

But all of those muddled thoughts stop suddenly because now – it's clear that the Doctor needs you. 

Which is exactly why you stay put. God knows puting you in the middle of it all will only irk him further. 

You _know_ better. 

"–Run away. I want you to be famous for those exact words. I want people to call you Colonel Runaway. I want children laughing outside your door 'cause they've found the house of Colonel Runaway."

Oh. Oh, _fuck_. 

You flinch when the Doctor launches himself up from his seat, pointing an accusing finger at the Colonel. 

It's heart-attack inducing, watching him turn into The Oncoming Storm; that part of the Doctor that you never want to be at the mercy of, and dread the day you will be. 

You pray to whatever higher power there is, and you hope it will never come down to that. If there's one thing you dread, it's becoming the Doctor's enemy. 

"And when people come to you and ask if trying to get to me through the people I love–" 

It's visceral – you knew what was going to happen next. Vastra would hiss that seething little noise, a warning to the Doctor: Don't be stupid. 

The noise breaks the spell, and for a split second – and in a moment of sheer panic – he scans the room until his eyes find yours. 

Your lips twitch involuntarily, since some part of you is always looking for a way to cheer him up. It works; his shoulders visibly sag in relief, throwing his own tiny, self-deluded grin at you. 

Then, before he has a chance to see the way you absolutely crumble, he turns back around. 

All business. All fire. 

The Oncoming Storm. 

"... is in anyway a good idea," he gives pause, face relaxing of any harshness, "I want you to tell them your name."

You wring your hands together anxiously, eyes flickering between the two men who stare each other down. It's like watching a movie play out in front of your eyes, and you're suddenly entranced. 

A dangerous, deadly look paints the Doctor's face now. "Look, I'm angry, that's new. I'm really not sure what's going to happen now." 

Something funny coils in the pit of your stomach, and you blanch. You forgot how uncanny your attraction to the Time Lord is whenever he gets this way. 

Not. Now. 

"The anger of a good man is not a problem. Good men have too many rules." 

_Fuck_. 

Almost immediately, your eyes fly over to Madame Kovarian in all her patronizing, unsettling glory. Not that she would understand the meaning of that word: _glory_. 

You _seethe_ – she's even more ominous and unnerving in person. 

The Doctor turns around slowly, giving off a vibe that screams _menacing_. "Good men don't need rules." Without sparing a glance to Manton, he rounds in on Kovarian, anger replacing any calm that had once been there. "Today is not the day to find out why I have so many."

Another stare down ensues. 

And you're back to chewing on your fingernails. 

"Give the order." Kovarian commands, eyes never leaving the Doctor's and watching him even as he walks away. "Give the order, Colonel Runaway." 


	6. THE BIRTH OF PLEASURE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can y'all guess which fandom we jail-breakin' next??

You're quiet. 

Too quiet – and the Doctor knows you, and he knows you well. 

You worry. For a heart-stopping split second, you worry that you won't make the greatest of impressions. It doesn't matter how long you'd seen their faces on screen, doesn't matter how many times you've dreamt of the day you'd meet them. It all comes down to this fateful day. And the thought of making an even bigger fool of yourself fills you with secondhand embarrassment. 

The silence suddenly becomes unbearable. 

"They're going to think I'm _weird_." 

The Doctor's reply is immediate, as if he'd been expecting you to crumble. "They already know you," he laughs softly, giving you an impish side-glance. "And they adore you, as one should – you're quite adorable." 

He looks almost proud of the words he had spoke; the picture of cheeky. 

You stare up at him, absolutely gobsmacked, lips parted as you struggle to streamline your muddled thoughts into a proper sentence. When you find nothing to jab back at him, he's heavenward. The soft little puff of laughter that flits past his lips has you fighting back a small grin. 

"Don't you worry your pretty little head over it." He says while taking your hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Just be yourself." 

You scoff, finally having the brainpower to do something other than stand there like a gaping fish. "Like _that's_ going to go over smoothly." 

Despite it being of the self-deprecating sort, it still seems to throw him in for a loop. An expression equivalent to that of a confused puppy settles over his face now, and for a split second he almost looks offended that you would think such a thing about yourself. To be fair, you've never really had the best impressions on anyone, really. You were either too quiet or you looked about ready to tear someone's head off. People just always assumed you weren't so friendly. And sometimes you can be a first class bitch, if you try hard enough. 

As if he finally summoned enough courage, he stops walking and you get a face-full of tweed. You try to school your features into one of nonchalance as he turns around to look at you. It's then you realize, by the sheer hardened look upon his face, you may have said the wrong thing considering how utterly taken he seems to be with you, and you're sort of hoping it's just a trick of the light – the minuscule flash of hurt in his eyes. 

"But, you– you're brilliant," he mumbles, trying to streamline enough words into a sentence. "And funny – and you've never even had to try to make me laugh." 

"Doctor–" 

"And you're smart and kind and–"

" _Doctor_." 

"–so bloody infuriating." His voice softens, trailing off into a shaky sigh – all of this followed by a nervous bob in his throat. 

You stand frozen in your spot, blinking rapidly up at him in confusion.

Wait, what? 

Your lips part in reply, but nothing comes out. 

He thinks you're infuriating? 

You're completely winded by his honesty, and by the sheer and raw affectionate gleam in his eyes. 

... _infuriating?_

There's this funny feeling clawing away at your navel, thoughts jumbled into an imperfect mess that sends your heart into a roaring sputter. 

"Don't go all quiet on me now." 

"You think I'm infuriating?" you repeat in a low mumble. 

He gives you a lopsided grin, folding his arms across his chest. "I thought that was obvious." 

His tone isn't condescending, not unkind – just soft. The Doctor's never been _just soft_ , he's always been fire and ice and rage, and – well, you know how the saying goes. But with one look at him right now, you don't see any of that. You see an imperfect man who just so happens to be a nine-hundred and something year old alien who travels the depths of the universe back and back again. 

"I suppose that is one of my specialties," you murmur, hoping to subtly pilot away from his _very unsubtle_ mawkishness. 

At that, his smile widens and borders into gappy and downright pleased. 

_Cheeky bastard_. 

With his smile still in place, he wraps his arm around your shoulders and steers you back down the hall. "Like I said, adorable." 

All you do is scoff, but let him lead you anyway. You do, however, chance quick side-glances at him, taking note in the slight bounce to his step, and that strange little smile he has. Oddly enough, you find comfort in it, along with his warmth that leeches onto you from the close contact of his arm. 

You can't exactly pinpoint the moment you reach the room, but it's when the Doctor starts talking that you snap out of your short-lived reverie. 

"Ew, kissing and crying. We'll... we'll be back in a bit." 

You chuckle absently, images of a white room slowly bringing your focus to the two other figures inside of it. Unfortunately, your lame attempt at a laugh is what brings their attention over to you, and – for some reason you can't explain – smiles light up both of their faces. It's a mixture of shock and relief. You faintly recall the Doctor mentioning that they already know you, which now you sort of wish you'd kept your mouth shut. 

"Oi, both of you. Get in here, now." Rory's voice is different – scolding, but good-natured. 

You grab onto the back of the Doctor's tweed jacket, brows furrowing when you realize it had been instinct to reach out for him. With a hesitant grin, you give a nod and take a deep and measured breath. "Right, coming over now." 

The Doctor follows behind you – not willingly, but because you're tugging him along, hand tightly curled around his jacket. He stumbles over his footing from the sudden change in momentum, but quickly regains a normal walking pace, unbothered by the fact that you're gripping onto him so petulantly. 

It's almost as if he... _feens_ for it, if the way his knuckles keep brushing over your forearm is any implication. 

Coming to a halt, you let your eyes dance between them rapidly – anxiety bubbling up in your chest. The Doctor's presence beside you gives you a sense of security, but it's nothing compared to the absolute war raging around in your head. Panic _and_ excitement were never a good thing. Weird things tend to happen when you feel panic and excitement. 

At the soft gurgle, your eyes flicker down to the bundle of joy wrapped and tucked safely in Rory's arms. Something warm and fuzzy washes over you at the sight of her – Melody Pond, or as you're more accustomed to, River Song. 

But, Melody Pond – now that's a name out of a fairytale. 

"Hello, you." The corner of your mouth lifts up into a goofy grin, hand raising to give the infant a wave.

You almost recoil at how baby-like your voice sounds, but freeze when she reaches up and curls her tiny, and very chubby, hand around your pinkie. It definitely alarms you; the feel of her tiny fingers kneading into your skin – _her_ skin (baby skin really _is_ smooth), the low gurgling sound she makes as she stares up at you as if you're a shining star. 

Alarming is definitely the word. 

Soothing, too. 

Oh, _wow_. 

But also, _feelings_ ;too many feelings. 

Amy releases a teary huff of laughter, "Look at that, she likes you." 

Your eyes flicker rapidly between her and little Melody Pond as if her words had severely puzzled you. 

The Doctor nudges you, looking smug and just a tiny bit pleased. 

'Told you so', he mouths petulantly. 

Before you can throw a retort at him, or make any kind of noise of disagreement, he gives the delightful bundle of joy his uttermost impenetrable focus. For a moment, he looks clearheaded – a foreign sight to see until you realize it's the same steady look he'd given you right before taking your hand and dragging you out of the TARDIS only an hour ago. 

Ah, right. 

_This is his future wife_ , you think distantly.

Little Melody Pond, unbeknownst of her future. 

You watch fondly as the Doctor points down at the baby with a boyish gleam in his eyes, giving Amy a toothy grin. 

At Amy's mention of her daughter's name, Rory gives his wife a pointed stare, proceeding to correct the Doctor's use of the name. "Melody Williams–" 

"–is a _geography_ teacher. Melody Pond is a superhero."

Without warning, the Doctor leans forward to sniff her (your nose wrinkles because you never truly understand why he does that). "Well, yes, I suppose she does smell nice."

Ah, baby talk. 

You keep forgetting this man knows every language known to creation. 

You roll your eyes, giving her little hand a soothing sweep of your thumb before pulling it away. 

The Doctor pulls Amy into a bear hug, and as perceptive as you are, you notice he doesn't rub between her shoulder-blades like he had with you. 

"Right, sorry we took so long." He says as he gives her one long sniff, only to pull away and beam brightly down at her as if it had been the most normal thing to do.

"It's okay. I knew you were coming. All three of you, my little stitched together family." 

It's one thing to acknowledge the fact that she already knows who you are, but it's another to actually be considered her family. How far into your future (and their past) did you actually know them that well? The thought sends your mind reeling with thoughts and you seem to dig yourself into a tremendously steep hole, one so steep that you don't even hear the sudden _whoosh of wings_. 

And the deep baritone of a voice you know all too well, calling your name. 


	7. DIMENSION HOPING IS DANGEROUS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this reads choppy, feel free to let me know because I spent the better part of my day yesterday worrying over it being the best.

"You..." 

He says your name again with all amount of seriousness in his voice, but you can't seem to get past the fact that he's actually standing there. 

"But, how–"

"We need your help." He takes a step toward you, and you take one back out of instinct.

"It's alright," the Doctor's reassuring voice reaches your ears, "You know him; he's a friend." 

"Of course I know him," you chuckle skeptically. "But how is he here?" 

Said figure steps forward, hands slowly raising in the air as a sign of surrender. "How early is this for you?" 

The angel looks genuinely curious; head tilt and everything. 

"She's early, Castiel. Very early and very young." The Doctor answers, coming to stand next to you protectively; shoulders unusually squared and chest puffed out. It's a posture you don't see often, and especially on the Doctor – playing the Alpha male was never something he did before (not even with Rosie, and he was in love with her).

A part of you wonders what it means, but you know that when it comes to the Doctor, it's never going to be simple. 

You can hear Amy and Rory speaking in hushed voices behind you – probably concerned, probably confused. The Doctor had mentioned that they already know you, and it only confirmed your skepticism when Amy referred to you as apart of her little stitched together family. There's no doubt that they're just as confused and scared as you are. 

"Doctor." You nudge him weakly. 

He grabs your elbow, holding you in place. 

Too much is happening. Your stomach plummets. What exactly _is_ happening?

You feel sick. 

Lost.

Why is the room spinning?

_Oh, God._

In your haste for answers, you look up at the Doctor; there's two of him. 

Big mistake. 

Too much movement causes too much – _everything_. 

You brace for the moment your face meets solid ground, but it doesn't come because someone's holding you. It doesn't take you long to figure out it's the Doctor with his arms snaked around your waist, hands pawing tenderly into your skin. 

He's anchoring you. To him. 

"Doctor, what's going on?" Voice strained, panicked. 

He speaks to you with a soft voice, but his eyes never leave Castiel. "Whenever you're ready, take his hand." 

"Not until you explain to me what's going on," your words fall from quivering lips, and your mind reels with questions. "Someone needs to tell me what the hell is going on." 

Panic wells up inside you, bordering on hyperventilation. 

Is it hot in here? 

Why does your skin feel hot? 

You sway and stagger, but quickly find your solace by wounding both of your fingers through his tweed jacket. 

"D-Doctor."

You don't miss the way Castiel's face pinches in an ancient sadness, one you're not accustomed to, but one you've witnessed from behind a television screen. It's so much more heart-wrenching to see in person.

"Doctor." 

And again. 

The Doctor finally gives, hardened exterior breaking – falling away like dust on a record player. His eyes slowly shift and land on you, "Universal frequencies are shifting; one level of existence to another... I'm afraid you're needed elsewhere, love." 

As your mind tries to come up with an explanation as to what he meant by 'universal frequencies are shifting and slash or being shifted', you blink heatedly up at him in confusion. 

What kind of mumbo jumbo is that? 

He had also mentioned you were needed elsewhere, which can only mean that you aren't needed here anymore. Which sends a whole new wave of alarm through your veins. 

Once realization seemed to dawn on you, it became obvious; you didn't want to go. 

You want to protest, and you want to be angry with him, but one look at him tells you that he doesn't want you to go either. It's overpowering, the way he stares down at you with those big, sad eyes, not saying anything. At least, not verbally, but the look in his eyes – they tell you everything. 

So, what is everything? Who are you to the Doctor? Family? A Friend – a lover? 

The word lover is so complicated, and with an infinite meaning, you don't know where you stand. 

And yet, he doesn't say anything. 

And you're starting to get anxious. 

"But I've only just got here, I can't leave you." 

The sound of your despair comes straight from your gut; you sound pathetic, begging like this – to him nonetheless. You don't want to leave him so early into it, not like this; you don't even know when you'll see him again and the thought absolutely terrifies you to the core. 

The Doctor gives you one of his more rickety grins, breathing out through slightly parted lips – eyes bloodshot. "I know and I'm sorry." 

You squeeze your eyes shut for the briefest of moments, resisting the temptation to just _lean_ into him.

"That's not _good enough_." 

"It's going to be alright." He tries to sound reassuring, but you can hear the tremble in his voice. 

You blink rapidly, feeling hot tears trail down your cheeks – then numbly swipe them away with the back of your hand.

Still weak. 

The Doctor's expression is carefully blank, as if the sight of you so torn leaves him feeling sick to his bones. You can't force yourself to drag your eyes away from his. 

The silence is jarring.

It's then Castiel calls your name – a bit urgently, slightly rugged. "It's Dean, he... he needs us." 

He sounds broken, it makes you wonder which time period he came from. Though, from the look and sound of it, you'd say around the time Michael using Dean as a vessel. Which either means this is before Jack loses his soul, or in the beginning stages of losing it. 

Terrible times call for immediate and drastic measures, you suppose. 

Your shoulders sag when you realize there's no other choice: you have to go. 

"I have to go, don't I?" You murmur, just quiet enough so that the Doctor can hear you. "They need me – they need me just as much as you do."

As much as you need him. 

With a tap to your cheek, he gives you his sweetest grin. "Clever girl." 

There's that funny feeling again. 

"Okay." You school your features into grim determination. "I'll go."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. 

You turn away from him and place one foot in front of the other, fingers slowly falling away from his, pinkies latching before they break away fully. A million questions flicker around your head, jumbling up every little bit of logic. 

It's instinctive – the moment your feet falter. 

"Wait." You swivel around in your haste to ask him something, acutely aware of how he perks up like a dog being called by its owner. "Doctor, what am I to you?" 

He doesn't move closer to you, doesn't flinch when you ask him such an oddly intimate question. But, you can tell he's holding himself back – from what, you don't know. It's in the way he rubs his palm over his knuckles, in the way his eyes light up like tiny fireflies like minuscule memories on a frequent blissful loop. 

And it's in that smile. 

You've seen that smile before; it's brimming relief, and it's devotion – and sunniness and so, so many other feelings all coming together. 

To form something so immeasurable, so ineffable, so completely– 

"Everything." 

Everything. 

What a strange word. 

At the lack of response, the corners of his eyes crinkle and his cheeks strain in warm amusement. 

You search his face for any sign of insincerity, but all that does is create more unanswered questions. There's nothing there but pure and utter adoration, if there is a way to describe the way he's looking at you. 

Confused beyond belief, you give a nervous titter. 

Right, now change the subject. 

"Amy, Rory–" your eyes flicker over to them, and they give you a sad smile. "Take care of him, yeah? Don't let him travel alone, and..." 

Don't die. 

Don't let yourselves fall apart. 

Don't be the heroes of your own story. 

No, that'll raise dangerous questions. 

"Keep each other safe, always." 

They glance at each other then down at Melody then back at each other, and there's an unspoken promise shared between them. It's visceral.

You can almost feel it as it entangles around you, stringing up every little bit of undignified desolation curling into your blood. It's warm, so unnaturally warm that for a moment you feel almost renewed.

Strange.

"We'll see you again," Rory says with finality, and at first glance, there's a definitive gaiety shining away in those eyes. "We always do."

"Well, then I'm looking forward to it." Your eyes shift toward the Doctor, giving him a wink, the gesture being oddly familiar to you, "See you, old man."

He holds back, biting on the inside of his cheeks.

You turn away and steadily stumble over to the angel, who's watching you as if you're something primitive and great. An expression you've seen plenty of times – always behind a screen, unfortunately.

"Right, do I just grab your hand...?" You look down at his hand with uncertainty, remembering the Doctor's words telling you to take his hand. It must mean something because if it doesn't then all Castiel would have to do is touch your shoulder, and he'd be able to teleport just with that touch alone. One chanced peek up at him and the beaming grin on his face tells you what you need to do.

You take his hand. 


	8. BOMBSHELL.

Teleportation isn't how you imagined it at all. 

You would've thought, that with a clasp of Castiel's hand, that there'd be some semblance of warning before your stomach dropped down to your ass. 

But alas, there was not. 

No such thing. 

You'll scold the trench coat wearing angel later, you plot bitterly as your feet land, uncoordinated on ground. With a whoosh of wings, it becomes painstakingly obvious that you are no longer with the Doctor, and instead, as you blink rapidly from having switching universes so quick, in what looks to be the Men of Letters Bunker. 

And all eyes are on you – all of a dozen, or more. 

White hot panic flares to life in your chest and causes a familiar heaviness to uncoil in your head. 

_Do not freak out_. 

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and you _need_ to make the greatest, bestest impression. 

_Just breathe_.

At the moment, all you have to do is focus on the now.

Oh, but _nerves_ –

You try to wrack your brain for any clues as to which episode you might be in, but nothing is ever that concrete. 

_Breathe_. 

You've been a fan of Supernatural for years now, and you can remember the day it took over your life as clear as raindrops on a windowpane. The Bunker's only ever been this full merely a handful of times, if your memory still works half as good as it once had. But, with a weary glance around you, everything pales in comparison. 

Castiel calls out to you – voice strained with worry. 

The thoughts in your head are too loud. 

Too much. 

If being with the Doctor was overwhelming then you wonder how well you're going to adjust to this universe. 

_Breathe_. 

At the distant shout of your name, your mind reels as if stunted that anyone other than Castiel, who's hand is still shockingly woven with yours, knows who you are. 

Your eyes snap over to the entry that leads, no doubt, down the hall toward the boys' bedrooms.

Standing at the edge is none other than the Winchesters and Jack Kline themselves. The sight of them sends a ripple through you, mind reeling, thoughts jumbled, head now featherlight compared to the massive headache that you endured only minutes ago. 

A beaming grin stretches across Jack's face when your eyes lock, and it leaves you breathless. 

Sam and Dean are speechless, but from the looks of it, they seem fond, as if this is an everyday occurrence for them. You remember the Doctor's words, and how Castiel greeted you as if you were an old friend, and suddenly you aren't sure if you can keep up with the spiking absurdity of it all. 

_A lot_ is happening. 

The people around you are sharing odd looks and whispering to each other, probably about you. 

_Too much_. 

You're paralyzed when Jack practically stumbles over to you, footing uncertain and wobbly as if the nerves inside his body were a wreck much like yours. 

"You're back," he breathes happily in relief. 

The smile on his face is almost blinding, but that could also very well be the origin of your descent into unconsciousness. 

Whatever it is, it leaves you stumped and entirely tongue-tied.

You laugh only once before you snuff out like a light. 


	9. TIZZYED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this sucked so much. 
> 
> On a side note: If you're wondering which episode this is, do not worry – all will be revealed next.

Your ascension into the land of consciousness is slow, the lucidity of previous events coming back in fragments. Limbs tangled in cotton sheets, head fluffed and sunken into something soft – you assume it's a pillow. You blink up at the unadorned ceiling above you, waiting for the liveliness to seep back into your bones, so you can properly figure out a plan. 

Is there a plan? Even if you manage to come up with something, is there even a chance it will go through without trouble? You don't have the proper resources, and you're still trying to figure out how you were able to travel to another dimension just by touching the closest related universal frequency, which just so happened to be Castiel. He'd been acting as its magnet, you gathered from what the Doctor had told you. 

It shouldn't come as a shock, it should be impossible. 

So, why are you having such a hard time believing that?

There's a gentle knock on the door, causing you to sit upright in a flurry of panic. With eyes wide, you regard the door suspiciously as if it's some outer world alien calamity. It might as well be, considering the fact that you are very far away from home. 

You hold your breath, expression guarded. 

You say nothing. 

Maybe if you don't say anything, they'll go away and leave you to plot your escape. It should be simple enough – a glance around the room and you notice that the only way out is through that door. 

It could be worse.

Another soft knock, and then someone's calling your name – dizzying, sugar-spun. 

Is that...?

The door creaks open, and you're met with a very guilt-ridden Dean Winchester. The very sight of him has you curling your fists through the softness of the sheets. You don't say anything, simply unble to because of how utterly stunted you are by his presence. And somewhere deep down you're half-certain this is just some elaborate trick of the mind because how else are you able to explain this? 

"Dean." 

He gives you a lopsided grin before ushering himself the rest of the way into the room. "How're you feelin', storm trooper?" 

Your nose crinkles at the nickname, feeling some sort of everlasting endearment underlying his words. Nonetheless, you watch him like a hawk stalking its prey, hyper-aware of the vulnerable state you're in. 

He makes his way over to the side of the bed, planting himself down right next to you. 

"Confused," you say after a lengthy pause. "You're Dean Winchester." 

He mhm's. 

"And I'm in your bed." 

A humorous gleam, softening eversoslightly. 

"In the Bunker." 

" _Yup_." 

"Lebanon?" 

He nods. 

You blanch. _Impossible_. 

"So? How do you feel? Cas told me this is your first time hoppin' on the bandwagon." 

"I think I'm still trying to process..." you gesture around you meekly, "this." 

"Well, you're here and it's all real." There's crinkles in the corners of his eyes as he scans your face with an emotion you can't quite understand. An otherness; something attentive and childlike. 

"Oh. Neat." 

If possible, the warm amusement in his eyes seems to dilate massively at your choice of words. 

You give him a funny look, "What?" 

"Nothing, it's just..." he pauses, bringing his hands to his lap. "You're different – younger." 

"Yeah, says you and a nine-hundred year old alien." 

"Right," he muses. "The Doctor, I assume?" 

A jolt of surprise. "You know him?" 

"You've introduced us a couple of times," he says. 

"And that daft old man doesn't get a nickname?" 

"I only give nicknames to the people I tolerate." 

"Dean Winchester tolerates me? I'm absolutely _floored_."

"Cute." He snorts, expression unguarded yet familiar. "Feisty, too – you feelin' okay?" 

Your lips part in reply, only to close them once again as soon as the door creaks open.

Both you and Dean look away from each other, surprised to see a familiar mop of blond hair poke its way through. Jack. Absurdly enough, he knows no boundaries and lets himself inside, carrying a steaming mug of – something. 

"I made you some tea," he says, voice pulpy and tender. "It's your favorite." 

You watch in awe as he shuffles over to the nightstand next to you then hands you the mug. You take it gleefully, but he makes no attempt to move away – he's rapt for your attention, like a little puppy waiting for its owner to throw a stick. It's quite adorable. 

"Thanks, Jack." 

His face lights up like fireworks, cheeks straining into a full-blown manic grin. 

You almost _aww_ at the sight. 

In the corner of your eye, Dean eyes the two of you with a knowing smile then shakes his head. And it isn't long until he's heaving himself up from the bed, giving you a secretive wink and pats Jack on the shoulder. In retaliation, Jack's eyes never waver from you – it's a little tizzying to say the least. 

"I'll leave you two alone." He backpedals toward the door, keeping a keen and very impish eye on you.

That look never once leaves his face even as he pulls the door shut behind him. This, as a result, creates awkwardness – you're practically oozing _antisocial_. But that doesn't sway Jack in the slightest, and if anything, the boy seems just as hyperaware of you as you are of him. 

But, you notice something; he's holding himself back. Hands at his sides, fingers curled into fists – knuckles pale white. His eyes have taken on an endearing sort of look, but the need to be near you seems almost overpowering. 

So, you opt to change the subject because you just can't take it anymore. 

"This tea is amazing." It's Earl Grey; your favorite, like he had mentioned. 

He smiles that gooey smile down at you, an odd look compared to what you'd watch behind a television screen. It practically emanates off of him, this sort of pleasant homesickness he has. There's really no other way to describe it. 

"I'm glad." 

A fluttering laugh, "Hey, Jack?" 

"Yeah?" Puppyish, a yearning anticipation. 

You speak without thinking. "Why – and please don't take this the wrong way – but, why do you keep looking at me like that?" 

And just like that, the trance is broken. 

His face falls slightly, eyes losing their natural lightheartedness, skin draining of color. He looks almost dead, wounded. There's no other way to decipher the utter emptiness you see. 

His eyes fall away and flicker back and forth, trying to search his brain for something. He mutters something under his breath, something about, " _Too soon_." 

Whatever _that_ means. 

The furrow between his brows deepens. 

You anxiously bring your nails to your mouth, not quite understanding his inner turmoil. "Jack?" It comes out muffled, behind your hand.

At the look on your face, his eyes seem to widen in realization. With one of his more sugary, timid smiles, he gets up from the bed, putting as much space between the two of you as he possibly can without coming off as crude. 

Confused. Very, very confused. 

"Are you hungry? I'm hungry." He declares with a nervous laugh, backpedaling toward the door, but bumping into the bedpost. You laugh once, slapping a hand to your mouth, but his eyes snap over to you anyway, cheeks tinted pink. 

"What are you doing?" you ask in strained amusement. 

"This wasn't here before, was it?" Attention elsewhere, cheeks burning maroon – he's embarrassed. 

So cute.

"Food sounds great, by the way." With your chin on your palm, you watch him dazedly, welcoming this funny feeling into your heart. 

"Right." He turns around and faces the door, but you don't overlook the brief flicker of pleasantness he tries so hard to hide. "Right, food. I can do food." 

You follow him out the door with a giggle. 


	10. AFFIRMATION.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize in advance for making this chapter really heckin' boring. Because of this, I think I'm going to (attempt) to give y'all some more Jack and Reader interactions. 
> 
> P.s. If you haven't watched season 14, yet, I highly advise reading with caution just in case there's any spoilers thrown at you. I don't think I've added anything of utmost spoiler-ing, but like I said – waltz in with caution.

You sit hunched in the seat; eyes intently focused on the mark on Dean’s shoulder. It was marred into his skin, crimson and craggy — a sight you find you despise. Guilt yawns like a pit inside you, preventing you from taking another bite out of the sandwich Jack had so readily prepared for you only moments ago. 

The young Nephilim disappeared immediately after, and wordlessly. There’d been such a drastic change in his attitude that you had watched him leave like a mooning idiot. The thought of the bareness that comes with being around him is risky. 

The question is: are you risking it for the right person? 

“Well, what could hurt Michael like that?” Castiel questions, brows furled deeply in confusion. 

_Something_ , you remember. At least, from what you’ve seen — from now until the end of this season. Unfortunately, you have yet to catch up with what comes after the big finale; you’re positively irked about this. 

Finally, you take another bite. 

You swallow it with difficulty. 

“Whatever it was, must’ve been strong.” 

Your eyes shift up and rest on Sam. Soon after that agonizingly awkward moment you shared with Jack; you’d been filled to the brim with anxiety at the thought of meeting everyone else. Luckily, the rest of the Supernatural Team (because you can’t find a better word) had left the Bunker, leaving you to be surrounded by none other than Team Free Will. 

You were squished into the youngest Winchester’s chest as soon as you stepped into the kitchen. It was... _invigorating_. 

Sam Winchester is a man of comfort; it’s just how he is — it's how you’ve always viewed him. From the moment he popped up on your television all those years ago, and even now. 

When he had pulled you into him, the first thing you noticed was how warm he was. Warm and gentle. With your face smushed into his broad torso, you’d murmured something about, “Of course your hugs are amazing,” and he regarded you with that same yielding expression — a look you’ve seen come to life whenever he felt open and cushy. And then he held you at arm’s length, eyes scanning you with a certain protectiveness that sent tingles straight down your spine. To break the broody and awkward eye contact, you made a breezily spoken comment on how his beard didn’t suit him (this earned a full-belly laugh from Dean). 

In that moment, the feeling of ebullience overcame you. 

Fastforward a couple of minutes, and despite the critical atmosphere, there isn’t a shrivel of cautiousness in your mind. 

“Right, so Cas, I’m gonna need you to get in my head.” He gestures lazily, “You know do the whole Vulcan-mind-meld thing. ‘Cause if I can remember what happened, I need you to drag it out of me, okay?” 

You watch as Castiel and Sam share a look of uncertainty; a moment that has you dragging your hands from the table and into your lap. It’s as if you can physically interact with their emotions — an otherness that seems to resonate inside your mind; it’s overwhelming. 

In his haste, Sam stammers; “W-wait a second. Are you sure about this?” 

Castiel continues to falter and fix Sam with that same look; a look of lingering panic, one you can feel deep beneath the cavity of your chest. 

And you keep forgetting _why_. 

“Yeah, I can handle it.” 

“Dean...” 

Dean throws the angel a look over his shoulder. He’s adamant. That’s never good. 

Whatever is said between the two is unspoken and visceral — and you don’t question it. It’s when he turns to steady you with a look of confirmation, expression shifting the slightest when he recognizes the flicker of confusion in your eyes. 

Your brain short-circuits for the briefest of moments, until you’re finally able to spot the hidden meaning behind it. 

_Double-checking_. 

Is he allowed to do that? He is aware of the foreknowledge you hold, isn’t he? 

Nonetheless, and because you’re such a fucking pansy, you decide giving him an answer can’t be too dangerous. And if so, then you’ll take the blame readily. 

“You’ll be fine.” By now, everyone’s turned their attention to you, “He’ll be fine.” 

There’s a dizzying relief in their eyes that has your fists clenching. 

Homesick. You feel homesick. 


	11. ATLAS BEARS THE WEIGHT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day?! Yowza. 
> 
> Forewarning, this one's a sad one. Hope you have tissues next to you.

You catch him in his room with a back-pack slung over his shoulder. His back is _to_ you and not _away_ from you. 

Oh, this isn’t good. 

Is he leaving? 

Think, think, think — what happens during this episode? 

It’s at the tip of your tongue now, fraying there like the lingering taste of tequila. 

You rush forward on slippery tile without meaning to, voice scratchy and hoarse as you speak. “You aren’t ditching me are you, Jack-Jack?” 

He doesn’t jump, isn’t startled by your voice — he doesn’t even turn around to face you. Yet, he says your name with a painful softness that makes you feel gooey inside. “Are you going to try and stop me? Because I’d let you, but only because I don’t have the self-control not to.” 

You inhale sharply, eyes falling down to your shoes in hopes to erase the effect he has on you. 

Then, “ _Jack_...” 

His body quickly swivels around to face you at the waver in your voice, but that’s as far as he goes. He just stands there, and in your peripherals, it’s obvious that it’s killing him — holding himself back. 

“Come with me.” 

Your head snaps up in shock. He had spoken with such carnality that it stunted you into saying the first thing that came to your head, “I can’t.” 

Call it a defense mechanism, call it selfishness — call it whatever the hell you want. You understand self-control, you understand that your life is no longer ever going to be the same again; however, you think everybody needs somebody to keep them tethered to reality. And Jack’s reality is this and now. 

He doesn’t belong on the outskirts; his home is here. 

From where you stand, it’s clear that he hadn’t been expecting you to turn him down, if the downright wounded expression on his face is any indication. 

“I... I’m sorry, Jack. But,” your voice dims. “You’re needed here, just as I am.” 

“You _said_ ,” he begins mulishly, eyes unfocused. “You _promised_.” 

Not you. The future you; your only enemy. 

You _hate_ her. 

Some part of you breaks, and you can’t help it; all that blossoming ire fills you to the brim, and you welcome it. It shoots through you like heroin, straightening you to your full height — there's a tick in your jaw. 

“That,” you enunciate each word, voice haggard. “is _not_ me. The woman from your _past_ , is not me, okay? And, I’m sorry!” You’re across the threshold now, expression livid and plummy. “But you can’t expect me to be this, this idea of a person who you’ve become so used to. It isn’t _fair_.” 

He’s braked into silence, an unflinching, eerie silence. It’s uncanny how he never once returns your unwarranted anger, as if he’d rather swallow his own tongue than show you that side of him. 

However, that doesn’t stop him from speaking up in retaliation to your ill-timed outburst. With quavering lips, he says: “It’s not an idea of a person when that person is who you’re going to become; _you_ taught me that.” 

You blanch — where is the fairness in that? 

Before you have the willpower to change your mind, you bolt. You’re intent, driven to find somewhere that isn’t out in the open, somewhere away from him. 

You’re halfway into the maze that is the Bunker when a strangled shout echoes off the walls. 

“Please! Just... just _wait!_ ” Despite how miserable he sounds, you pick up the pace, pushing yourself to run faster because there’s no way in hell you’re going to give in that easily. 

You manage to make it to Dean’s bedroom, and not a second more is wasted when you slam the door shut behind you. In all actuality, there could have been an easier and more mature way of handling that. For the sake of bruising your ego, you tell yourself it was the only way. 

Your knees buckle, sending you harshly to the floor with your back leaning against the door. The harrowing sound of Jack’s hurried footsteps reach your ears and you inhale sharply, holding your breath. You wouldn’t be surprise if he can hear the erratic beating of your heart. 

He calls your name once more — guilt-ridden, strained with tears. You can almost see the way his body sags, forehead dropping against the door in a moment of vulnerability. 

“Go away, Jack.” You stare up at the unadorned ceiling, blinking lifelessly. “Just... go away.” 

The sound of his head lifting from wood tells you he’s more alert now than ever. “Can you open the door?” 

Now, why on Earth would you do that? All it’s going to do is worsen the situation; you just want to be alone. 

A tear slips down your face. _You want to go home_. 

Your face twists into one of absolutely anguish, forcing a response past your lips with great difficulty. “ _Leave_.” 

It isn’t long before he gives in and you’re left alone in the silence. 


	12. TO FIND A BALANCE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know if the explanation makes sense during the end. This is a short one, so I apologize. I've also gotten myself into an almost undiggable grave of writer's block - it'll show in my writing, I'm sure. If it reads as if I was sort of... bored while writing it, then that's exactly how it was. I don't know how I'm going to get myself out of this block, but I'm hoping it'll diminish soon. Here's to hoping!

“I want to go home.” 

Several heads snap over to where you stand. Despite the keenness you walked in with, the looks on their faces tell you that you aren’t going to win this without some sort of backlash. Call it cowardly, call it selfish, but you wanted no part in this – not when so much was already being sacrificed. 

“Okay.” Dean steps forward, slowly bringing his hands in the air. “Why don’t we talk about this, yeah?” 

“Sure, okay.” You plaster on fake enthusiasm, but only for the briefest of seconds before it falls away to reveal a deadpan expression. “I want to go home. Can you take me home?” 

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” 

Castiel enters the room, his stance just as guarded as it had been when he found out about how early in the timeline it was for you. That ancient otherness is back, you can see it raging around in those primitive blue eyes. From where you stand, it’s barely discernable – but you notice the flicker of something; the type of _war-of-worlds, tearing-cities-apart_ desperation that he’s trying to keep hidden. 

It bothers you, to say the least. 

White, hot irritation slithers through your veins, forcing you to your full height. 

“Not possible?” Their faces turn frighteningly blank as you continue to watch them with an air of expectancy. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Jack calls your name this time as he steps forward, and there’s something in his voice that draws out the irritation you feel in that moment. When your eyes shift to catch him, the look on your face causes him to falter, he looks – for all intents and purposes – like a wilted puppy. 

A wave of realization seems to fall over them in heavy blankets of mixed despair and guilt. You don’t understand why, you couldn’t possibly know why they were now watching you like that – like they’d rather be doing literally anything else in this moment. 

“She’s too early, Cas. She doesn’t know yet.” 

“ _She_ is standing right here,” you breathe eventually. “What don’t I know yet?” 

Castiel heaves a heavy sigh as all existence of liveliness seems to empty from his eyes completely. 

“So help me Odin, if none of you tell me what the hell is going on _right now_ –” 

“In order for you to keep... dimension hopping,” Dean begins forlornly, “There had to be a balance, something that could keep your world from ripping apart, or else the Space-Time Rift would have destroyed it.” 

Confusion twists into your features. “A balance?” 

Dean forces himself to look away from you, “You can’t go back, kid. The rift is closed.” 


	13. THE MEDALLION.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this certainly took forever. I apologize.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar numbness to force its grimy hands over your neck, squeezing so tight that suffocation was the only thing you can feel. That and the tears stinging at the back of your eyes. 

Stupid, pathetic little girl. 

So feeble-minded.

And weak. 

You want to scream, to pound your fists against something jagged until your knuckles are swollen and bruised. 

“ _Who_...” Your hands come up, ghosting over your throat in an attempt to soften the strangulation. “Who closed the rift?” 

A bittersweet silence falls over the room. They all eye each other, wary of giving you an answer – not keen on wanting to break you even more. 

It’s Castiel who takes a step toward you, face pinched into guilt. “I’m sorry. We’re all _very_ sorry, but–” 

_“Who?!”_ A sound so vulgar tears itself from your chest. 

“You know who.” He doesn’t even flinch; he isn’t intimidated by you. “You just don’t want to believe it.” 

His words irk you. And that face he makes; you want to punch it right off. 

“Say it.” _Because you can’t bring yourself to_. “I want to hear you say it.” 

You don’t even notice how utterly dark this had all become. Between the shouting, the tears, the bone-stilling shock, there was nothing else to latch onto; you can barely summon enough emotion to shove them in a different direction, where you aren’t so soul-shatteringly angry. 

Castiel blanches. For the first time, the angel looks… afraid – for you, for himself, for the person’s whose name will soon sound more like a bucket of frigid dread instead of the illuminating blanket of warmth it used to bring. 

“The Doctor,” he murmurs the last terrible truth. “He had no choice–” 

“No choice?” you echo back indignantly. “There’s _always_ a choice.” 

Silence. 

At this, they look away – all except the angel. 

“What about me? _My_ choice?” Castiel’s mouth begins to open, but you lift a hand with a humorless laugh. “You know what? I shouldn’t be questioning you, or any of you for that matter. This isn’t your fault.” 

You feel like a parent scolding their children for something they had no control over. 

“Is there some way I can get to him?” They regard you with a familial wariness, “Preferably now?”

Your harsh tone breaks the spell, but there’s still enough tension in the room to fill a pond.

“You usually have your medallion – it’s your time capsule; we’ve seen you use it a couple of times.” Sam replies hastily as he rummages through a duffle bag. From where you stand, it’s obvious that he’s anticipating your next move, just as much as you are, if the rigidness in his back is any implication. “You left it with us the last time we saw you. ‘Said you’d need it,” his voice is strained as he hefts the object out of the bag before turning back around to face you, “Here.” 

You take it into your hands; it’s not as massive as he made it out to be. Golden intricate designs – that easily resemble _Circular Gallifreyan_ – dovetail around a metallic, hexagonal exterior. In the center of it sits some sort of futuristic clockwork; something so complicated that, at first glance, is unreadable. Regardless of such, you must’ve had enough practice already, due to the fact that you’d used it before. It hangs carefully from an obsidian-painted rope-like-thread. Thick enough not to snap during unforeseen circumstances, but thin enough not to suffocate you. 

All eyes are on you as you slip the medallion over your head.

Your face is carefully blank. 

The moment you touch the center of it with your fingers, wisps of snowy white energy begins to emanate from it. There’s a soft sort of dimming hum that comes from it as it vibrates with power. With wide, childlike eyes, you watch transfixed, when that same energy cocoons around you much like a protective, secluding barrier. 

‘Whoa’ seems to be the only thing that pops into your head. 

“Hey.”

You look up, eyes finding the ever-remorseful ones of Jack. He looks hesitant, like he doesn’t want you to go so soon, and soon it is – you only just arrived hours ago. His feelings are imperative to you now; somehow, he’s managed to become important to you even if his feelings are slightly more… _unabated_ (and way more friendlier, you think) than yours. 

You gather yourself, forcing those walls back up, but not depriving him of that softness you still harbor. It comes in the form of forgiveness – the words ‘I forgive you’ sinking dimples into your cheeks. 

And just like that, fireworks light up his face like the Fourth of July. 

You do the same for Sam, Dean, and Castiel – fixing them with friendly, half-forgiven smiles. They all return them readily, shoulders sagging with relief at the sight of your mercy. 

Just before everything goes white, you lift your hand in the otherwise, world-known ‘boy-scout’ salute, having the last thing you see being of their amused grins. 


	14. FORGIVE ME, FIRST LOVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who here loves making pretty boys sad??? I do lolol 
> 
> I'm sorry please don't hate me

You remember the blazing, rocky pavement digging into your palms. The sun-rays pouring down over you in waves of warmth, settling into your skin – and you remember the Doctor leaning, inching toward you with puckered lips. 

Something flares to life at the sight of him, and your face twists dangerously. 

So, what do you do? 

You deck him. 

He stumbles back and plops to the ground, hand immediately flying up to his jaw. You watch as he drags his eyes over to you, then to the spot where you have your hand gently cradled to your chest. His hand slowly falls away from his jaw, face carefully blanked now.

Every instinct begs you to do it again. 

White, hot anger boils in your veins, without so much as a warning, and a fresh new wave of tears sting at the back of your eyes. You try to focus on anything other than the pain in your hand, but it swells there anyway. 

_Goddamnit._

The Doctor calls your name then – cautiously as if he were approaching a wild, untamed animal. But you don’t say anything in reply to him; however, you can’t stop the visible grimace in your expression when he takes a step toward you. There’s a terrifying look in his eye – a soul-shattering _pulling-worlds-apart_ desperation that sends your heart aflutter. 

A Doctor who's lost hope is not a Doctor you want to be anywhere near. 

You take in your surroundings with a keen eye. A blanket lays flat on a boulder – there's a book, trees, and tall buildings reach high into the skies. The two other bodies straying behind the Doctor like shadows are a dead giveaway; Amy and Rory. One look at what they’re wearing, and your stomach plummets. 

Every single thought seems to stall on one thing; Amy’s wearing glasses – _why_ is she wearing glasses? 

A heavy dread settles in the pit of your stomach. Oh, no. Not good. Very not good. Suddenly, you feel sick, forcing yourself to turn around and bolt toward the TARDIS, fully aware of the Doctor scrambling right after you. 

“Okay, okay. You’re upset. And angry – _blimey_ , that was violent.” He catches up to you, surprisingly keeping up with your faster strides. “I’ve done something wrong, haven’t I? I know I have. There’s something I’m missing. Something important.” 

Before you have the chance to reach the TARDIS, he tugs on the back of your coat, whirling you around to face him. 

“Just wait, alright?” He lets out a tiny, exasperated huff. “Let me think. Let me fix this.” 

_“Fix it?”_ You yank your wrist out of his grip, features twisted into a stormy rage. “You can’t _fix it_ , Doctor – it’s already been done.” 

Now, you’ve seen the Doctor completely tear himself apart because of something he’s caused, but this is different. The look on his face makes him look withered and old and sad. No, not quite. Tired, maybe. And his eyes, they fade into nothingness, they lose that youthful warmth, making him look dead. 

The seething rage monster inside of you ticks. 

“Do you regret it?” You stare him down with words that cut through the air with a vicious vengeance. 

Somehow, his silence feels strangely close to losing a limb. 

He looks at you pleadingly, lurching forward on coltish legs. Instinct has you flinching back, with skittish movements, ready to tuck tail and bolt like a scared kitten. Whatever he sees in you breaks the spell, and he flies back into action. 

“ _Please_ , don’t do this now.” His hands stretch and reach out toward you, but you dodge. Desperation is a dangerous feeling for him to harbor; you’ve seen what it can do to someone as vulnerable and powerful as him.

The outcome is never good, but somehow you can’t stop. 

“I _hate_ you.” The words are said with such venom that he reels back as if you had hit him a second time. Once again, there’s that terrifyingly desperate, crazed look in his eyes. 

“No. No, no, no – you don’t mean it.” 

There’s a dangerous, fleeting second where it looks as if his knees are about ready to give out beneath him. You know that your words have impacted him greatly, in the most soul-shattering way, but you can’t help it; your arrogance has won. 

“Doctor?”

And, _cut_.

The sound of scuffling shoes against rocky pavement tears your focus away from him and over his shoulder. The Ponds, both equally, dreadfully concerned, approach you with caution, eyes drifting between the two of you. 

The Doctor’s eyes are bloodshot, wearily eyeing your hand as you keep it cradled to your chest. Strangely enough, he doesn't even acknowledge her, continuing to watch you with frigid concentration, an expression that demands attention. 

Amy peeks at you over the Doctor’s shoulder. Like a typical mama bear, checking to see if her cub is bruise-free, she looks at you searchingly. 

Then – very softly, “Are you alright?” 

A lie lingers on your lips. The sympathy on her face has you faltering. 

You rush toward her with a sudden burst of affection, and before anyone can witness your mask slipping, you wrap your arms around her in a brief embrace. You do the same to Rory, unaware of the steadily rising apprehension in their expressions as you whirl around and make a break for the TARDIS doors. 

As if having sensed your plight, they creak open just in time for you to slip past them. 

Behind you, you can hear a strangled shout of your name. In a rush of undulated fear, you bolt up the stairs and down one of the many corridors; the Doctor’s rapid footfalls echoing distantly behind you. 

The TARDIS is a labyrinth of sorts, one you’ve yet to master. Which is why you’re grateful for the sudden glow of orange that lights up alongside the walls. 

“Hey,” voice soft, eyes softer. “Think you can hide me for a couple of hours?” 

There’s a distant hum, and straight ahead, you see a myriad of flickering orange lights. 

From somewhere deep in the TARDIS maze, the Doctor’s shouts have gotten louder and more desperate. Heart-breaking murmurs of an apology that flitter down the corridor, toward you.

You peek over your shoulder, heaving a heavy breath at the vast emptiness that goes on and on behind you. No Doctor in sight. 

Cradling your wrist to your chest, you push onward. 


	15. SHATTERED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the Reader's struggles and thoughts for this chapter, folks. Next one is when things start building up as they should.

The TARDIS had led you to a room eerily familiar to the Doctor’s. 

The room itself is a stark contrast to the console, that much you notice right off the bat. You feel as if you’re intruding. There’s a foreboding sense of unease that swirls around in your gut – you shouldn’t be in here. Yet, you know you’d feel unsatisfied if you didn’t itch that urge. Or maybe it’s the pain in your wrist like little pin-pricks digging into you with a twisted malice. 

You lift your swollen wrist from the confines of your chest, breathing out shakily. You wince, glaring down at the purple bruise drawn like a rope of suffocation. _Eugh_. That is definitely going to hurt in the morning. 

As if only to spite you, you’re suddenly reminded of how it got there in the first place. The Doctor fixing you with that strange, vulnerose look upon his face when you had told him that you hated him. 

You halt in your steps, looking around the room with a sense of guilt. Had you been too harsh on him? You know you there’s a part of you that will love him with every fiber of your being; pine after him, and possibly in a moment when you’re reminded of his wrongdoings, hate him with just as much vigor. But that childish part of you crumbles at the thought of the spaces in between, where that mind-numbing nearness stretches so far and wide that you’re unable to keep him there, just within hand’s reach. 

A tear slides down your cheek, and you swipe it away angrily.

The TARDIS gives a lurch and you sway, if only for a brief moment. 

Hm. They must’ve gotten to the part where Rory has gone missing, taken away by the Weeping Angels. You can’t help the zap of anticipation in your veins, provoking you to go out there and put everything aside – the anger, the betrayal – just to see if tempting the laws of time is something you’d get away with. 

The clock is ticking down. 

Would that even be possible? Saving Rory and Amy from their inevitable demise, possibly risking one more paradox. Could you bring yourself to do it? 

Clearing those thoughts away, you meander over toward the Doctor’s desk where a plethora of picture frames stand. Astounded beyond belief, most of them are of – well, _you._ And some of his companions, along with his granddaughter Susan. But, most of them are of you. 

You pick one of them up and frown in quiet derision. There you are, smiling loonishly up at the camera; eyes crossed, tongue poked out – you look older here. Your frown seems to deepen when you drag your eyes away to scrutinize how comfortable the Doctor looks beside you with his arm draped over your shoulder, cheek squished against the top of your head with one of his more lazier and drawn grins. This is the face of his Tenth regeneration, the one with the hair and that moronic, lovesick charm and those damned puppy dog eyes. It hasn’t happened yet; you’ve yet to meet this version of him. Though, it’s obvious that with just one glance, you have forgiven him. There’s nothing but raw fragility here. 

When your eyes land on another, your stomach plummets. 

It’s of you and his current regeneration – his Eleventh face – with not a nanometer of space between your bodies. He has one arm wrapped around your shoulder while the other comes around your waist, fingers interlocked with your own with lazy effort. What sends that ice cold shock to your chest is the fact that his lips are smooshed into your cheek, and you are absolutely, one-hundred percent, _head-over-fucking-heels_ in love with him. 

In a fit of ill-mannered rage, you lift the frame above your head, ready to throw it across the room, to smash it into tiny little pieces. You make a sound – a guttural, strangled sound of utter brokenness, and you falter. 

You would’ve shattered the frame if it weren’t for that fleeting thought to look at the picture again. 

How strange. It’s as if he loves you the same. 


	16. VULNEROSE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this took so long. I spent so much time editing it and re-wording sentences - and paragraphs!! I hope it's okay!! And please, make sure to leave a comment! They truly make my day.

The moment you walk into the console room, two pairs of eyes pierce you like an arrow. 

You don’t meet their eyes, afraid you’ll break right then and there. It’s clear that neither of them had been expecting you to show up even if you refuse to look at them head-on – you can practically reach out and touch their emotions with your hands, and taste the aftermath of them on the tip of your tongue. 

You sulk where you stand; head dipped low, features twisted into a grimace. Guilt sinks into your chest with an ugly sharp twinge, and it tickles your cheeks with your tears. With an angry sniffle, you swipe them away. 

“They’re gone, aren’t they?” 

There’s a lengthy pause before River speaks the last, shattering truth. “Yes, my love.” 

The Doctor, who’s been unusually quiet since you arrived, clumsily tenses until his posture is semirigid straight. You pretend not to notice for the sake of plowing through these next few moments that are going to be, for all intents and purposes, a hellzone for you. Only seconds ago, you came to the frightening realization that you aren’t ever going to return back home, and – in slightly less traumatizing knowledge – you are living the absolute crazed fangirl’s fantasy. 

You lift your eyes up from the ground, flagrant gaze deadlocked on River’s. While hers is boundless and softly warier, yours is the exact opposite – a criminal kneeling before the executioner. For a brief, earth-shattering moment, you pray to whatever higher power above to let the ground swallow you whole. 

“I’m sorry.”

She freezes for a moment, or they both do, but you know it then that you’ve said something wrong. Her eyes take on a purely inhabitable otherness as the silence begins to stretch far and wide, and the uneasiness sinks into your skin, creating a naked vulnerability. 

A minute passes, or two – possibly three. 

She blunders over to you, expression set and rigid with emotion. In the last few seconds, your mind is clouded with guilt, and the alarming warmth from her palms isn’t enough to crush it all down. 

“Don’t you dare,” she grinds out. “Not another word, you hear me?” 

That seven pound organ in your chest feels like a ton of bricks. Your mouth is insanely dry, and even the tears in your eyes feel like molten lava. When one slips free, she swipes it away immediately and levels you with that same terrifying look. 

“Promise it.” 

“Okay, yeah.” 

She levels you with a blatant stare, as if you’d said that too fast for her to believe you. In retrospect, you hadn’t even thought about it before the words toppled out. Still, you know some part of you is going to mull over it as soon as she’s out of sight. 

“Fine – _okay,_ ” there’s exasperation in your tone, “I promise.” 

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

A brilliant smile splits breathtakingly across her face. Eager to persuade her, you force an unconvincingly submissive grin onto your own. As suspected, it feels too artificial, but strangely enough, she doesn’t even question you. 

With a _friendly-but-way-too-friendly_ pat on the shoulder, she swivels around you and flounces away, heels in hand. _Phenomenal_. She just went from almost depressed, to full on Energizer Bunny in less than ten minutes. It’s almost impossible to wrap your head around. 

“Oh, and one more thing–” she turns away from the TARDIS doors, tossing her heels over her shoulder as she regards the two of you with a look of utmost sincerity, “Don’t ever stray too far from each other. Not ever, and not now.” 

And with that ominous message left twisting in the wind, she shimmies out through the doors. They close behind her with a soft _click,_ once again leaving you with an empty mouth and a full mind.

The TARDIS hums back to life. 

Then very, very quietly; “How’s your wrist?” 

“Swollen.” Harsh and clipped. 

The Doctor heaves a heavy, wearied sigh, and you’re tempered in the fact that he can’t see the tears you’re barely holding back in the corners of your eyes. Oh, but you aren’t going to give him the satisfaction because then he’d have every motive in the entire universe to rush forward with open arms – boundaries be damned. 

A multitude of things happen next: flipping switches, pulling levers – and the sweet, sweet descent of the TARDIS. Somehow, without you realizing, he’s managed to take you away to an entirely different location. 

“I can take a look at it – bandage it up, if you’d like.” 

You bite your tongue, making a face at your wilted wrist. When he says your name shortly thereafter, you can’t help but soften begrudgingly and, at long last, whirl around to face him. 

The utter lucidity of the state he’s in sends your stomach plummeting. He isn’t wearing his jacket anymore – it’s discarded off to the side, now – and his hair’s an absolute mess with errant strands poking out in every which way as if he’d been tugging at it in moments of distress. To make all matters worse, there’s a mottled bruise on his jaw from where your fist had made impact. 

_Ouch_.

He looks utterly war torn, though any movements you’ve caused now has his full, ear-perked attention. Whatever sulking he’d previously been doing is now replaced by that same heart-warming, eager-to-please passion haloing over his head. 

And like a mooning idiot, you pine. 

The two of you stand there during a brief moment of reprieve. No one moves, no one says anything – there’s only searing silence. Though, it doesn’t take a genius to understand the raging war going on inside that massive brain of his. The alarm in his expression raises tenfold when his eyes flick down to lock on your wrist. 

You keep it cradled protectively against your chest, still, enough to where you can feel your pulse thudding away painfully beneath your skin. The gears tick away, you can see them working rapidly to find a way to help you; however, before he has the chance to do anything about it, you whisper those soul-shattering words to him. 

“I could’ve _stopped_ them.” 

His eyes flick up to yours, confusion drawing his brows together. He manages to hold himself back, but it’s clear that the longer he strays from you, the more jittery he becomes. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I could’ve stopped them – I knew what was going to happen, and yet I didn’t do anything to stop it.” You press on, hoping against hope that he recognizes the sheer adamance with which you speak. “And you should be _angry_ with me, so why aren’t you?” 

There’s a totality in the way he turns his back to you, a similitude in his shame. 

“It wasn’t your job.” It's spoken in that _end-all_ voice of his, as if he dares the universe to challenge him – all highlighted by his unwillingness to look you in the eye. 

Incredulity paints your face, as you refuse to wrap your head around the sheer _stubbornness_ of this man. Your throat lumps. At a loss, too nonplussed to say any legitimate thought, and instead, do what you do best and rub salt into the wound. 

“I tried to leave,” you begin churlishly. “It was only natural for me to try.” 

He seems to recognize where this is leading, and weirdly enough, starts to get antsy.

With a need to play the Devil’s advocate, you display your knuckles to him. “I couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment my skin began to tear and bleed, but I _knew_ that if I stopped, I was sentencing the rest of my life to feeling that guilt.” He reaches for you, but aborts when you jerk back. Your hands are shaking now, the tears are threatening to spill and it’s killing him. 

You wanted this. You wanted every part of this, so why does it hurt?

“You should be mad, Doctor. You should _hate_ me.” 

“Never that, and never you.” He gives you those widely-known puppy dog eyes, hands dancing in your direction. 

You had forced space between the two of you in hopes to stay focused because he is _very distracting,_ but even with distance, your mind still feels like a mass pool of anxiety and childish need.

“But you should,” a strangled whisper. “You should because if I hadn’t been so _hellbent_ on making you hurt then–” 

“Do you actually think I’d let that happen?” No matter how badly he wants to get close to you, he remains glued to the floor like an obedient, albeit impatient, little puppy. You can’t imagine the self-control, just fraying – bordering on downright insanity – to keep himself steady and unattached to you. He breathes once, lungs catching, then he wrings his hands together as if there’s not enough time to tell you. “There is no logical answer I can give you that could possibly make this all seem better, but you have to understand; these people, they leave their marks and then they go. Yes, they are a _massive_ part of me, but you, _you_ have tethered yourself to my very soul.”

And suddenly, just like that, you are unequivocally spellbound. 

“You’re just too important to me, and I’m far too foolish – far too _selfish_ to let you go,” he says it with so much longing that you blanch. 

The ball is in his court now, and he knows it too. 

You gawp at him, grappling for clear-headed thoughts, but there’s a smoldering desperation in those eyes that has them faltering like the sound of a needle zipping across a record.

As he starts toward you, not stumbling or lurching, every single thought fizzles out and your brain shuts down. Abort! Abort! Abort! By the time your body has caught up with your brain, he has you trapped with your back arched into the railing behind you. Nowhere to go, not one ounce of space between you. You’re close enough to where you can hear the famous twin heartbeat jack-hammering away inside his chest. 

“Doctor,” you choke out, baffled. “What are you doing?” 

“Doing what I do best.” He feigns innocence, gently reaching for your wrist. In a matter of seconds, he’s slipped into ‘Doctor Mode’, and has completely thrown your _boundaries_ out the window. Jerk. He gives a low hum, brows knitted in concentration as his focus never wavers from your injured wrist. “Definitely a Grade-three sprain.” 

You _mhm_ even though you have no clue what he means. 

“Just a moment.” 

His presence seems to cloud every rational thought in your head, which is why you don’t feel the sudden tingling sensation in your wrist until it’s too late. Oh, no. You look down just in time to catch wisps of golden regeneration energy wrapping around your wrist protectively. 

The pain ebbs. There isn’t a bruise in sight. 

“There.” He kisses the side of your wrist, eyes still unwavering as he smiles proudly down at his handiwork. “All better.” 

You pull a fast one and jab at him in a fit of shock. As if having anticipated this, he steadies your newly healed wrist against his stomach, but _oh_ , you are having none of it. 

“That was a _stupid_ waste of regeneration energy,” you throw back at him, and his expression twists. 

“Oi! Language.” 

“Again, _stupid_.” You pull out of his grip a bit roughly, rocking to a stand. He looks a bit down in the dumps, poor baby. Hadn’t he already tried that method of healing with River? Panic bubbles up in your chest at the mere thought, but what’s done is done. You force pressure around your wrist in an attempt to test the waters, and in an act of childishness, turn your back to him. “Why did you do that?” your voice is soft, disbelieving almost. 

At long last, he says, “The ligament was completely torn, it would’ve taken weeks, maybe months to heal.” 

“It would’ve healed, you said so.” 

“Then think of it as an apology.” 

That brings the smallest of grins to your lips. He’s trying so hard to butter you up, with no motive, but because he genuinely wants to make up for what he had to do. This, however, makes it difficult for you to be angry with him – and you really, _really_ want to. You planned on ignoring him until it drove him mad, and you knew it would have worked too. 

Alas, here you are. 

“I’m sorry. For, you know, punching you.” You spin around to face him, and as if caught red-handed, he crosses his arms and tucks them out of sight. You pretend not to notice, and add, “And for saying ‘I hate you’ – I could never hate you.” 

“You don’t have to apologize, I deserved it.” He watches you with an incredibly heart-shattering fondness and leans toward you conspiratorially, “And I know.” 

You breathe finally. Well, that’s a relief. 


	17. HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-duper short, folks! I guess this is me letting you know that I'm still working on this. Not gonna lie, I just wrote this up because I finally had the motivation to; I've been droning away with my 1st WIP, and other personal things. 
> 
> I'm actually decently excited to write the future chapters - you'll understand why when you read this part. 
> 
> Remember, comments and kudos are a great motivator. Don't be afraid to give me some pointers or your thoughts <3

Your back hits pavement harsher than a stack of bricks. Everything swirls in and out of focus, but with one look up at the dark clouds, you realize if you don’t move soon, the rain gods will show no mercy. Either that, or you’ll be struck by lightning. Which, neither sound appealing in the slightest. 

You are going to _strangle_ him. 

Just moments before, you and the Doctor were surrounded by a fleet of Daleks. In his defense, and from previous events, he did make it _painstakingly_ clear that your safety meant more to him than his own. Hearing it now and with clearer thoughts, the aftermath of his stupid decision making leaves him without your help. If you go back now, you aren’t sure you’d jump to that specific time – the Medallion doesn’t pinpoint exact dates, unfortunately. You have no idea where or when you’d land. 

Speaking of, you haven’t the _faintest_ of where you are now. 

You wiggle your toes, fingers – everything works and nothing’s broken. Turning your head, you’re surprised to catch sight of a wooden sign, only to blanch at the words painted clear across it. 

_Welcome to Mystic Falls_. 

Houston, we have a serious fucking problem.


	18. WHEN THE PENNY DROPS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ominous evil laughter*

Next stop: _Mystic Grill_. 

If there’s anything you’ve learned while watching The Vampire Diaries, it’s that if you live in Mystic Falls, the only decent place to be is _that_ goddamned place. Anyone who’s anyone goes there, and that’s including the infamous mythical creatures that you’ve grown so attached to over the years. Vampire and werewolves alike – hell, even hybrids. Might as well throw in some witches too, right? Mystic Falls wouldn’t be so _mystic_ without its resident Salem witch, and Bonnie Bennett sure had a knack for making a name for herself. 

You reach the Grill without any trouble, but you couldn’t release a breath just yet. This is _Mystic Falls_ , after all. Nothing ever just doesn’t happen, and as far as you’re concerned, no one really has time for a break. 

The bar is empty safe for a familiar blond slaving away behind the counter – you seem to release that breath at the sight of him. Matty _blue-eyed_ Donovan. With one look, you can already piece together that this is _way_ before Silas, so that puts you smack-dab in the middle of...

“Well, I’ll be damned. Is that you, Omi?” 

At first, you don’t say a thing – because _surely_ this person is talking to someone else. 

“ _Yoo-hoo_. Earth to Omi.” 

You’re grabbed by the wrist and that does it. A flash of red, and everything afterwards happens too fast – and you couldn’t _possibly_ have seen it coming because now you’re pinning someone to the bar, forearm pressed into their neck. 

“ _Easy_ , Omi. It’s just me. Only me, okay?” He surrenders, voice a little rugged yet still so gentle. Your own eyes meet steely blue, and that’s all it takes for you to stumble back in horror. 

“Damon,” you squeak out. “Damon Salvatore.” 

And just like that, he smirks, that tiny, self-deluded spark of hope plowing right back into him. But he still watches you with that carefully tilted head of his, eyes scanning over you as you try not to squirm. He drags his eyes back to yours, trapping you in, eyebrows drawing together in that always persistent and broody way of his. 

“You seem a bit…” he gives a slightly awkward pause before adding, “ _spooked_.” 

“An understatement, really.” You roll your shoulders and hammer away. “Look, before this goes any further, you should know that this is my first time actually meeting you.” 

His face carefully blanks at your admission. “Oh.” 

You give a nod in return because in this moment, it’s as though words have escaped you. Without a doubt, you know it is hands down, one-hundred percent from the sheer fact that you are standing in front of none other than Damon Salvatore himself. What seems to confuse you even more is that said stoic, hard-hearted vampire is now staring woefully off into space as if you had just told him you killed his puppy. 

And then it hits. He really knows you, and from the looks of it, cares about you too. Which creates further conflict, and even more questions that you aren’t sure you want the answers to. God, you hope there isn’t some universally convoluted love-triangle that you aren’t aware of – you already have to deal with one moonstruck knucklehead as is. 

“You called me ‘Omi’ before. Why?” 

He looks absolutely torn, but tries to conceal it with that ever-so-daunting smirk of his, and those walls come right back up. It doesn’t make you feel any less _out of the loop_ , but you can’t stop yourself from softening begrudgingly at him. Any fan of the show would kill to be in your place, yet here you stand, so utterly at a loss. 

You tell yourself it’s his fault for acting very _uncharacteristic_ toward you. 

He starts to speak, only for his voice to go unheard due to the murmured coercion of your name from across the bar. You try to get a good enough glance at this mystery person, but Damon has already moved himself in front of you; shoulders squared, arm out to the side as if blocking your view from whatever oncoming threat. You recognize it almost immediately as a form of protection, and your stomach plummets. 

You stand on your tiptoes and peek over his shoulder, floundering back a few steps as if being slapped right across the face at the sight of your unwarranted visitor. 

“You really think you can hide her from me, Damon?” 

Well, this is all a bit anticlimactic. 

He tenses until his body is ramrod straight. “Why are you here, Klaus?” 

In the corner of your eye, Matt seems to have finally realized the severity of the situation, and instantly flies into action. With arms crossed over his chest, he places himself next to Damon where you take notice of the tick in his jaw with an expression much more elusive than you’ve ever seen before. 

You give a nervous titter at his back. _What the fuck?_

“You know as well as I do that I’d never do anything to hurt her,” his voice is crooning and sadly hesitant as he adds, “And if what I heard is true, then so does she.” 

You freeze and lift your gaze to meet his just over Damon’s shoulder. His face isn’t haggard like you imagined it would be, he’s actually quite placid in his demeanor, and strangely enough, appears to have sagged in relief at the sight of you. 

“Say the word, Omi, and he’s gone.” This time, it’s Matt who speaks, his hardened gaze deadlocked on the Original hybrid. 

You realize, with a quickly chanced look at Damon, that he’s looking at you over his shoulder now, features twisting into an unreadable expression. However, as soon as you make the choice to step out from behind him, he swivels around to face you and says those next words darkly, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

He leaves no room for an argument, but that doesn’t stop you from trying again. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I trust him.” 

“ _No_.” His hands bolt forward, gripping protectively around the fabric of your jean jacket. Big mistake. 

In less than a millisecond, Klaus appears next to you with a dangerous look on his face. His eyes are glued to where Damon’s hand is curled and tightly wounded, focus never wavering as he speaks lowly. "Let her go."

You can see how he holds himself back from acting out, and questions begin to form when he makes no move to hurtle him across the room. 

Despite this, Damon retaliates instantly, venom in his tone. “She’s not going anywhere with _you_.” 

This isn’t supposed to be happening; they aren’t supposed to fight over _you_ , of all people. Klaus, for starters, is supposed to fall in love with Caroline, and Damon – well, he’s obviously just trying to keep you safe. You can’t help but wonder if he’s protecting the wrong person. 

You throw caution to the wind and step between them, giving them an expression equal to an angry rhinoceros. “Alright, _boys–_ ” you plant your palms on their chests– “Quit it with the ‘holier than thou’ bullshit and ease up with the testosterone; it’s giving me a migraine.” 

And then something happens, and it brings you to a grinding halt. 

You hadn’t noticed it before; the way their entire bodies went entirely lax, submissive to your touch – nor the tickle in your gut when their eyelids fluttered shut in absolute crazed, cross-eyed compliancy. 

Something very fishy is going on here, and you’re adamant to find out what that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [don't worry, you'll find out soon why the Reader was being referred as 'Omi' soon!]


	19. OFF THE CIRCUIT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an incredibly short chapter, but I promise it is not a filler chapter - goodness knows I've given you all enough of those. I would like to acknowledge the fact that when I do give you outrageously short ones, know that it is all in kind and with a lack of inspiration to continue with said chapters further. With the outbreak going on, I've had other things on my mind, and even though everything inside me is begging to write whatever, it's hard to do that when such a worldwide pandemic is happening. 
> 
> Anyway! Moving on! I just finished season 10 of Doctor Who and I am not alright™ But that is taking me one step closer to writing with more wonderfully written characters. FYI: I am in love with Bill Potts, and will forever cry over her farewell. Also, I love Nardole. I have yet to see The Husbands of River Song, which is supposedly the episode right before season 10, if I'm not mistaken. Need to watch that. 
> 
> Enough of my blabbering, please - if you can - comment the season and episode you think these next chapters will be based on. I love reading all your beautiful and cheek-aching comments. 
> 
> Remember to stay healthy and to stay inside as much as you can.

As if burnt, you tear your hands away, holding them to your chest. _What was that?_ Turning them over, you cautiously run your thumbs over the skin on your palms – normal _human_ skin, nothing to highlight the strange buzzing sensation you’re experiencing. 

Instinct has you taking a step away from the trio, but there’s something tying you to your spot, preventing you from bolting. Your throat lumps when you drag your eyes up to them. Both are frozen, but Klaus has his hands dancing in your direction, as if readying himself to race after you if you so choose to tuck tail and hide. Not worth the chase if Klaus can, undoubtedly, outrun you in milliseconds. Damon, too. Maybe you can ask Matt to hide you, have him slip you some vervain, just in case either of them change their mind and turn you into dinner. You shiver at the thought of their fangs sinking into your flesh and let your hands fall away. 

“Alright,” you give a nervous titter, eyeing them warily. “Not necessarily a big deal right now, but is there a reason why the two of you are about ready to rip each other’s necks out?” 

The room immediately fills with tension.

For a moment, you are acutely aware of how the simple question has turned them into poles. Posture incredibly tense until they go ramrod straight, skin looking cold to the touch despite their unearthly nature to do so. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there's something they aren’t telling you, something of uttermost importance possibly. 

“Klaus.” 

He drags his eyes to you, blinking rapidly and shaking his head as if removing himself from that little bubble of out-of-focus dreamland. 

“If you don’t tell me what the hell is going on–” 

“Relax, Starshine.” A lopsided grin, a playful lilt in his voice. “I was already on my way here to invite you all to our Grand Ball.” He says that last part with a little more flare, making the whole thing seem a bit _blood-and-thunder_ , and for some unknown reason you can’t help the stupid jab of warm amusement from plowing right into you. 

Stupid Klaus. 

Stupid, traitor heart.

Both Damon and Matt are speechless as Klaus offers the invite with an open smile. From where you stand, his intentions seem bogus, if not ill-timed – because now everything is coming together and you know _exactly_ why you’re here. 


	20. NO MORE DOTING.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is really, very short, and I am so sorry. I keep procrastinating on everything else. But, good news is that I have future chapters planned.
> 
> I don't know how long I'm going to make this, I'm sort of just winging it, picking and pulling out ideas as I go along. Next up, will probably be another somewhat filler – and I say somewhat because there will be a bit of a backstory as to her relationship with the Mikaelsons.

"Klaus, I can't wear this." 

He does a double take, smile dropping right off his face. "Of course you can." 

"No!" You hold it out in front of you, gaping at the sheer beauty of it, and laugh once – incredulous that he would even consider giving this to you. "This is too much. What if I ruin it?" 

" _Ruin_ –" He stops, realization strikes then he smiles with a ridiculous little shake of his head, stars twinkling like mirth in his eyes. "That won't happen." 

Oh, but it will. _It might_. All you know is that he shouldn't rush to think otherwise – not with the foreknowledge you have, and you know he knows that you know. God, he'd be stupid not to. 

"And suddenly you can predict the future?" you say sassily. 

His grin stretches on for miles as if he knows he won’t need to argue about it further. The ball is in his court. He knows you too well, if today’s previous events are any implication. Admittedly, there’s a part of you that wishes he hadn’t looked at you the way he had done at the Grill. Would’ve made this a helluva lot easier to turn away from. 

Too late now. He already has his hooks in you. 

The dress is simple and _pink_ – definitely something you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in a time like this. You analyze it. With off-shoulder, elbow cut sleeves, a fitting and unrevealing bust, and a perfectly flowy skirt dragging behind just the slightest. Lace. Lace for days, and unimaginably stunning. At first sight, you’re sure the air had been kicked right out of your lungs. 

“Fine,” you deflate, then immediately hold up a finger when the sound of a very pleased titter flies past his lips, “But that doesn’t mean I want you to keep _doting_ on me whenever you like because, quite frankly, I’m against doting. I don’t like it, okay?”

Another little laugh that has you gulping. 

Then, “As you wish, Starshine.” 

And let this be the last time you _ever_ give in. 


	21. UNDER LOCK AND KEY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I've been going back and forth between Reader's LI for Marvel, but I've finally settled on Bucky, so there's that!

You brace yourself against the mirror before you, sucking in yet another harsh breath. It feels as though your boobs are losing their blood circulation. God, why did it have to be a damn corset?

You cringe.

A familiar blonde pokes her head around your frame, watching you with a wry tilt of her lips.

Oh, she’s having way too much fun with this.

“Are you trying to suffocate me?”

“Stop whining,” she laughs, eyes twinkling much like Klaus’ had just moments before sending her in to _ruin_ you. With a roll of her eyes, she shuffles back in place and finishes the last bit of corset with a sharp tug.

You give a high-pitched, drawn out whine of protest, hands almost slipping from the vanity. For a heart-stopping split second, your life flashes before your eyes. You manage to grip onto the edge before letting yourself crash and fall to the ground.

“There.” Rebekah takes a step back to admire her handiwork, pride igniting her soft features.

It’s almost enough to have you smiling back, but you have yet to get over your near death experience, and instead level her with a look akin to utter distress. Noticing this, she sends you one that reads as ‘this is the girl my brother is so smitten with?’ and nudges you back in place. “You can breathe now, Omi.”

There it is again.

 _Omi_.

You release one long stuttering breath, shoulders sagging, but posture still semirigid and just the slightest bit stiff. You must truly be a sad sight because now she’s watching you as one who suffers from secondhand embarrassment.

"It's not–" your voice strains as you hike up your skirt, "– _as easy as you think_." 

The room settles into a comfortable silence. Rebekah distracts herself by picking imaginary little fuzzies off of the dress, smiling strangely. Perfect time to pose the question. 

"Why 'Omi'?" 

She hums in reply, slowly dragging her eyes up to you. 

"It's just... well, ever since I got here, it's all I've been hearing–" you mimic jazz hands– " _Omi_." 

With a dizzying relief, she laughs and it's barely a puff of air, but you can tell she's already used to your unusually pour-humored antics, and you fight back a smile. Perhaps, this isn't too bad. 

"When you first popped up, you told us it was a name that you chose for yourself. A meaning. We never questioned you." A small reminiscent smile curves into her mouth, then adds in a slightly softer voice, "You said it stood for who you are. Said that it reminds you of what you're capable of."

What you're capable of – what _are_ you capable of?

You walk over to the bed with a frown, looking down at the Medallion – one big, meddlesome mystery. Omi just doesn't remind you of anything, at least not yet. As stated before, you're still very early and very young and maybe this is something you need to figure this out on your own this time. You need to hold your own hand now; not the Doctor's, not River's, not Klaus' or – _God forbid_ – Jack Kline's. You slip the Medallion over your neck and sigh when the cool exterior comes in contact with your skin. Like a breath of relief. Seems you're attached already. Attached and protective. 

"You trust me." Your hands tighten around the Medallion, eyes slowly slipping shut from the mental serenity it brings. Rebekah shuffles on her two feet behind you, a sure sign that you've made the tension a bit awkward. You turn around to face her, a kindly grin of sorts, and add, "I'm still too early to know more than that, now – but you trust me."

"Well, you've proven to me that I can," she states a bit proudly, "Not too long ago, I believe." 

Those words bring a new wave of questions and a determination to know more. However, as expected, she only gives you that all-knowing grin of hers – a jumpstart for your anxiety. 

“Okay, and what about your brooding brother? Doesn’t he… you know–” you make obnoxious kissing noises– “fancy Caroline or something?” 

Instead of answering you, she gives you the universal lock and key gesture, though it’s obvious she hadn’t expected _that_. 

Well, isn’t that just _dandy_.


	22. DANGEROUS LIAISONS PT.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh how times flies when you're in quarantine. 
> 
> yeah, i'm back babies. and this... sucks. okay, well, not all of it. some of it is good, and some of it, i rushed through. yes, if you could take a look at the title, i will be uploading the second part sometime during this decade, i promise. no, but seriously, i haven't been on my game in so long - i've mostly been planning things for my other wip... so anyway!!!
> 
> i hope you all like this part <3

This is bad. Too many _people_. 

You reach for one of the wine flutes and gulp it down, already untwisting the cap to the flask. In an attempt to be discrete, you refill the flute with your chosen liquid comfort for the rest of the evening. Vodka, a woman’s best friend. Well, _yours_ anyway. 

The sound of a classical, Victorian era violin number blares in your eardrums. You have half a thought to slap your hands over your ears, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. 

“Classic Omi, bringing her own drinks to a party.”

Your head snaps to the left, catching sight of Damon wearing a well-tailored suit. At the sight of you unharmed, having scanned you head-to-toe, his entire face softens into a brilliant, heart-soaring grin. He comes to stop right in front of you, and you hide the flask behind your back as he begins to reach for it. You glower, suddenly peeved by his presence. 

“With the intention of _not sharing_.” A distinctive pout curves his mouth, but you’re unbothered by it. “Go find someone else to annoy, ‘m not in the mood.” 

“Are you okay?” The worry comes back full throttle and he straightens, frowning deeper than before. 

“Look at me, Damon. I’m drinking Vodka out of a wine flute. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘okay’.” 

“You’re right.” He nods, having settled an argument inside his head before sidling up to your side, gaze drifting toward the crowd of partygoers, “Lay it on me.” 

You stare at the side of his face, carefully blanking your own. Was this something he did often? Offer himself up to let you spill your burdens in return? It’s odd to see him so willing to listen to you, given the nature of this man. It makes _no sense_ that the once stoic, hard-headed, blood thirsty vampire could just up and change his ways, and for someone like you, nonetheless. _Weird_.

It hits you then. Why he’s been acting so strangely out-of-character toward you. Damon Salvatore has never been the one to dig himself into someone’s troubles, at least not when it comes without reward. 

“And you care?” 

“Completely.” His expression reminds you of when the Doctor had gotten away with calling you ‘adorable’. He looks so _proud_ of himself, so you brace for what comes next. “You look beautiful, by the way. If it isn’t already obvious. I’m assuming _Klaus_ gave you the dress—” 

You groan, repeatedly smacking your palm against your forehead. “ _Just throw me off an overpass_ —” 

“Omi. Omi, what are you doing?” He swipes at your hand, “Stop that.” 

You make a face at him. “You’re being unusually chivalrous.”

He gawks, suddenly thrown, but still manages to find his voice. “I can be the nice guy sometimes, you know.” 

You do a perfect deer-caught-in-headlights expression when he cages you in with that annoyingly, unerring look of nonchalance. He waits expectantly, and the longer he watches you, the more easy and amused he becomes, that iron-willed mask slipping just the slightest. 

You squirm, turn away, and offer up your flask without having the gall to watch him take it. Although, you don’t doubt that the asshat is smirking in that smug snootiness he wears so well. 

“Whatever,” you say airily. “Just don't drink all of it.” 

“Are you implying that I’m an alcoholic? Me, Damon Salvatore—” your snort cuts through the air, but not with ill-intent— “your most _lovable_ and _trustworthy_ best friend?” 

_Best friend_. That title pulls irritatingly on your heartstrings. You grimace, but smother it with a forced grin. 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you retort back. “Now, skedaddle, lover boy. Leave me be.” 

He takes his time in scanning you, brows pulling together as if he can sense that there’s something _eating away at you_. Whatever it is, he leaves it be and, interestingly enough, he starts to lean in for a hug. The moment you tense, he aborts. His back goes intensely rigid, and his face goes carefully blank of emotion. And then those walls come right back up. 

“Right,” he clears his throat, lifts up the flask, and smiles so small, so sad that for a split second you have the sudden urge to apologize for something you have yet to understand. “Thanks for this.” 

You give him a nod in return, unsure of the strength of your voice, and watch distantly as he roams further and deeper into the ever-growing crowd of people you don’t know. He slinks off toward Mayor Lockwood, giving her an award-winning smile and she returns it because who doesn’t instantly turn into a flustered little school-girl at the sight of him? It’s almost impossible not to. 

"Omi?" 

You turn abruptly to the shying voice, beaming at the sight before you. All she does is gape like a fish out of water as you dip your head in a curtsy, “Hello, Elena.” 

She seems awestruck for a moment, disbelief written over every inch as she takes you in. The gentleness of her wandering eyes makes you fidget, and you can't help but grow self-conscious in the presence of one of the more stunning faces around here. You'd always thought Elena was warm and friendly, even from across a screen. A part of you longed to have the passion she had. 

In her haste, she takes a quick, inquiring step forward, mouth in a little 'o' as if remembering something crucial. The moment lingers very briefly, though she still balks. 

"I'm — _sorry_ , I didn't recognize you at first.” A brittle smile, a tight laugh. “You look so... _different_ —"

"Elena, I see you've found Omi." 

An involuntary groan sounds deep in your throat. _Whhhhhy?_ You aren’t in the mood to be ogled by _Mr. Egotistical Alpha Male_ especially not when all he ever wants to do is spruce you up the second he has you alone. This is going to be a long night if he’s already suffering from Omi deprivation. His eyes, however, zoom straight in on the doppelganger beside you, giving her his best diabolical grin. _Pft_. 

Elena’s posture goes dangerously rigid when Klaus sidles up right next to you. Her eyes are glued to his arm as he drapes it over your shoulder. He smells gloriously of tea tree and mint. And the territorial hiss coming from you doesn't ruffle him in the slightest. 

There are quite a number of things you've noticed in both the Doctor and Klaus, and it is that _neither_ of them have any _advocacy_ for your boundaries. You feel crabby and no amount of alcohol is going to change that. 

“How are you enjoying the party? I severely hope my mother hasn’t gotten to you yet,” his voice is, for all intents and purposes, suave. “She’s been talking about you all night.”

A nasty look scours your face as you try desperately to shake his arm off. He gives a small noise of protest when you manage to wrangle yourself free, purposely avoiding the look of hurt on his face as you do. The two of you smile politely at each other, but you're certain from a standbys point of view it looks much too forced to be real. Which is why you don't blame the sheer look of pandemonium on Elena's face as her eyes fly rapidly between the two of you. 

"Actually," she begins slowly, "I kind of came here for her, so—" 

Interestingly enough, this does little to lessen the evil shimmer in his eyes. “Well, off you go then. Mustn’t keep mother dearest waiting.” 

Scandalized, you watch as Klaus ushers Elena away and into the crowd with a hand to her back. But you’re quick to belay any worries by giving her a quick nod when she throws a more than distressed look over her shoulder at you. Then, like the Elena Gilbert you remember from the show, she gives Klaus a look of unbending irritation before picking up the skirt of her dress and marching away. 

A smile strains against your cheeks, but vanishes away completely as Klaus saunters back over with one of his more softer grins. He had been so quick to get her away from you, once again making you feel as if there's something big you're missing. 

You simmer, and interestingly enough, he starts to get jittery. _Yesssss? Is there something you want, you_ **_heathen_**? When his eyes fall down to the flute in your hand, your blood boils. Hot like molten lava. You eye him dangerously. 

" _What_?" 

This idiot has the audacity to give you the _Eyebrows of Disappointment_ before tutting in his reply. "You should slow down on the alcohol, Starshine." 

You quirk a brow, "Why should I listen to you?" Just to riffle him up even more, you take a lengthy sip, all the while not batting an eyelash. He swallows hard. 

"I was told that it messes with the travel," he replies stiffly. You glower and he shrugs before adding in a much calmer tone, "It's accurate information considering you were the one who told me." 

You hesitate. The vodka burns like rubbing alcohol as it goes down your throat. Okay, so maybe you find out the hard way, you've read plenty of fanfiction to know that the outcomes are different. Besides, you travel with alien technology, isn't that different? As far as you know, you don't time jump by an innate source; the Medallion does that for you. 

Then again, _so what?_ The only thing that’s keeping you sane is the alcohol, because then you don’t have to think too much about it. And not thinking is good for your head. God knows what’ll happen to you when you start thinking too much. 

So you ignore him, and like a moody teenager, he sulks. Oh, how cute. Though, it isn’t long until he’s back at it again with the talking. He turns to you abruptly and holds out his hand, and that snooty grin is right back on his face. 

“Dance with me.” 

Well, you certainly were not expecting that. 

“I don’t dance,” you say breezily. 

“You may be impossible, but you aren’t immune to compulsion.” He leans in conspiratorially, “I can always… _compel_ you to dance with me.” 

“Try it and I’ll teleport you to the Aplan Mortarium.” 

He smiles goofily at that, noticeably _vibrating_. Now, that is very unlike him. 

You glance away, afraid of seeing something in his eyes that might deter your persistence, and instead watch as everyone starts to gather around the dance court. Elena, Stefan, Damon, Matt and Rebekah — all of them are there, unaware of how you keep trying to swat Klaus away as if he’s some annoying fly that won’t leave you alone. _Traitors_. You’d think that if Klaus knows you as well as he seems to think he does, then he’d know not to mess with you. 

“This younger version of you,” he muses. “Very feisty.” 

“Oh, you like that?” You arch a brow, voice flat. “You should see me when I’m pissed off.”

The bastard laughs and bounces on his feet once. What a child. 

Though, it does bring an unwarranted grin to your face. 

It’s when he reaches for your hand that it drops, desperately tugging out of his grip. A knee-jerk reaction that forces the atmosphere to take a dive into the dark side. The lack of affection in his eyes has you taking a step back. He looks angry. _Oops_. 

In the corner of your eye, it’s clear that your little lover’s quarrel has turned some heads. Off in the distance, Damon and Stefan both have stopped completely, their eyes trained on the two of you. Great. Like you need any more attention. 

Klaus seems to notice how uncomfortable you’ve gotten, if the rigidness in his posture is anything to go by. His lips curl back, eyes narrowed dangerously. Tension rises. 

Even as the alcohol finally takes a toll on you, nothing stops you from walking away. 

No one even follows you. 


End file.
